A Friendly Foe
by TheGreySpecies
Summary: Set after OOTP. Harry disappears after his Fifth Year. Ten years later, Voldemort introduces a new Death Eater under his control. - AU. Mostly Canon Pairings.
1. Chapter 1: Old Friend

Warning: this story will have changing point of views.

No, it will NOT have romance. Yes, it will have a ton of philosophical issues. And yes, I will focus a lot on platonic relationships. Mainly between Harry and Dumbledore. A bit of Harry and Ron.

And no, this is NOT a fic about Dark Harry. Yes, he will have a completely corrupted side. But there's a reason for that. I'll also be sticking with the canon characterisations (or try to).

And yes, it will have a lot of angst and violence. No slash. No super Harry. No magical core. No good Voldemort. No evil Dumbledore. Will generally try to avoid cliches.

Will have a lot of universe building, will stay within the context of the established Wizarding World unless otherwise stated.

NO Dumbledore bashing.

In fact, no character bashing at all. It's very immature imo.

So . . . If you don't like it, you better scram. Otherwise, enjoy.

* * *

A weary sigh escaped Albus's lips. He stood from his desk. He had been sitting with his back hunched over his desk for about two hours. He had been writing letters to anxious parents to reassure them that their sons or daughters were perfectly safe at Hogwarts. He had several security measures to ensure that no unwelcomed visitor would ever enter the castle.

But he knew that they fell on deaf ears, especially by the troubled parents. In the midst of a war, they simply wanted their sons or daughters to be returned to them. It was a sort of visual assurance that their children were safe.

Albus didn't blame them, of course. The lives of children mattered to him just as their parents. He knew that, if an unwelcome visitor like Tom Riddle were to enter this castle, he would be responsible for every child that had become victim.

But there had been a victim.

Albus's heart clenched at the thought. As he neared the window, he watched as groups of teens and friends gathered around the lake. Some tucked beneath the trees with the sun casting fissures of light onto them. Some (the boys, in particular) cast pebbles or rocks into the lake. Others were more gallant. They tossed whatever food they had picked up from the Great Hall into the water. This caused the residents of the lake to appear (mainly the giant octopus), their delighted laughter causing ripples in the water.

Albus smiled weakly at the sight.

Over the years, he had grown weary of such scenes. While the students were naturally gregarious, his thoughts continued to haunt him. Such scenes reminded him of a certain dark-haired young man, a former student of Hogwarts, who had mysteriously vanished after his Fifth Year.

He remembered watching a boy of about fifteen years from this very window sandwiched between his red-haired friend, Ronald Weasley, and a fair young lady by the name of Hermione Granger, lounging beside the lake with his friends.

The Headmaster felt the grip on his emotions slacken.

Ever since Harry Potter's disappearance, Albus found that the calm façade that he had built over the years had crumbled. In fact, when he had first heard the news of Harry's disappearance, dread and panic – was it? – had filled his heart.

He hadn't known that Harry was missing until the term had started. Only to be informed by a flustered Professor McGonagall that Harry had never arrived at Hogwarts. Nor had he ever boarded the Hogwarts Express. Albus knew that, at the time, that it was fruitless to remain composed. After all, whether or not Harry had personal troubles at home, Albus knew that Harry would travel to great lengths to ensure that he returned to Hogwarts. With or without the Dursleys' permission. The boy certainly had the determination to accomplish this task.

But when Harry didn't arrive, Albus knew that something had happened to the boy. And that Lord Voldemort was involved. He had called on Harry's friends and the Weasleys. Surely they would know where Harry was. But they simply claimed that they hadn't received letters from him all summer. They had assumed that Harry was simply grieving for the death of his godfather and did not want to talk to anyone.

But Albus had quickly rejected this theory.

Though Harry had quite of a temper, he would never outright ignore his friends no matter his state of mind. He had also shown fierce loyalty to those close to him. Likewise, Albus's faith in him had never wavered.

Until that day.

After he had sent Harry's friends back to the Great Hall, he had flooed to the Ministry to inform them of the missing boy. At the time, Rufus Scrimgeour had been appointed Minister of Magic. When Albus had arrived, he quickly strode towards the Auror Department, his strides long and his tone impatient.

However, just before entering into the office of the Head of the Department, he glimpsed ripples in the room. Rumors and whispers were spreading that the newly appointed Minister of Magic had paid a visit to the home of Harry Potter himself early in the summer. But Albus could not fathom why the Minister would privately corner Harry. Perhaps in public, that was reasonable. To gain the acceptance of Harry Potter was akin to gaining the acceptance of the world. But privately…? Perhaps regarding the prophecy? Did the Minister pry for information regarding Lord Voldemort? Albus had speculated endlessly until he made the decision to speak to the Minister later.

Casting aside the thought, he had entered into the office of the Head Auror. He told him what had become of the boy. Sensing Albus' distress, the man dispatched three Aurors to investigate the Dursley home. Albus offered to accompany them, which they allowed.

Oh, how he had wished he had remained in Hogwarts.

The sight he had seen in the Dursley home was quite disturbing. Though the family had been unkind to their nephew, the sight of their unmoving bodies on the floor was a cruel tale of what had occurred in the home.

The lights were extinguished. The tea kettle whined for what seemed like an eternity as the men processed what had happened. As Albus collected his wits again, he realized that there were only the two bodies of the parents. But the two younger boys were missing.

Dudley and Harry.

Wearily, he left the three Aurors investigating the bodies and travelled upstairs to the boys' rooms. As he reached the second floor, he heard whimpering coming from one of the rooms. He peered inside, flicked his wand, and the young boy Dudley came levitating towards him.

"My dear boy," Albus said quietly. His tone was pleasant and calm, though his heart was racing. "Can you tell me what has happened here?"

He did not expect a reply. And young Dudley did not give him one.

Instead, the boy whimpered and tears descended down his face. He was breathing hard. Albus lowered him to the floor. He watched as the boy crawled to a corner, hugged his knees, and sobbed hysterically.

But Albus needed answers.

"Come, now, young Dudley," Albus prodded gently, slowly advancing towards the boy. His heart clenched as Dudley pushed himself even further against the wall. "I do not intend to harm you, in any fashion."

A flicker of suspicion crossed over the boy's face. He looked up at the wise wizard dressed in periwinkle robes.

"You're magic," Dudley breathed, his tears descending quickly. Then, he clenched his fist and bellowed. "Magic killed my parents!"

He was too busy rubbing his eyes to see the wave of regret that crossed over the old man. Albus knew that the boy would never steer from this prejudice. Not after after the events today.

"You musn't assume the actions of an entire population simply because of one man."

Albus wondered if the boy would correct him.

Indeed, he did.

"One man?" Dudley scoffed, his eye blotched. "There were three men. All dressed in black and all wearing masks," Dudley's voice broke. "They said that they were looking for Harry. Mum told them that he was upstairs, but they laughed and Mum fell to the ground. And Dad..."

Dudley didn't finish. Instead, he closed his eyes and howled into the night.

Albus felt a weary sadness cross him. Warily, wondering if the boy would answer, he inquired.

"And Harry?"

Dudley's eyes snapped open, his eyes wide open. He scanned the room for his cousin. But Albus cast a silent Leglimens on the boy. Harry had been here, in this very room, before the Death Eaters had arrived. It seemed that he had remained there, grief-stricken over his godfather. Albus watched as Dudley hid in the cupboard and watched his parents killed in front of him. As soon as the Death Eaters left, he sprinted upstairs to check his cousin before realizing that Harry was not in his room. There was no body to be found.

Albus startled out of the spell.

"I don't know what happened to Harry," Dudley answered slowly.

The boy stood up and checked every corner of the room for his cousin. But the search was fruitless.

Harry was missing.

"I – I –" Dudley stuttered helplessly. "I wasn't thinking. My parents - "

Albus interrupted him with a lift of his hand.

"I understand, dear boy," Albus stated wearily, "I do not think any son or daughter would have wished to see such events occur so early in their lives," he adopted a reassuring tone, "Do not dismay."

He then lead the boy downstairs where the Aurors were preparing to Apparate. They did not have an explanation of what had occurred that day. The Killing Curse, after all, left no traces. A day later, the bodies were buried and Dudley was transferred to new relatives. But there was still no sign of Harry. Not months later nor the years after. The boy had even missed his Seventh Year.

It had been ten years since they had last seen Harry Potter.

However, rumors had spread across the Ministry that the Aurors had spotted a dark-haired man, that the Aurors swore looked remarkably like Harry, that worked for Lord Voldemort. The rumors had started when the Aurors received a letter from an anonymous source that the Cornwall family were going to be killed in their homes at a certain date.

The head of the house was Micheal Cornwall, who was also Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. After sentencing four renowned Death Eaters to Askaban, Cornwall became targeted. The Aurors had responded, but they were too late. When they had arrived, they found a man standing over the three bodies of Micheal Cornwall, his wife, and his son.

The Aurors mentioned that he kept the hood of his cloak on to shadow his features. But he had gallantly challenged the Aurors to a duel. In the midst of a duel, one of the Aurors had caught the man with his hood down. He had dark, and fairly disheveled, hair, bespectacled, and his eyes were blood red. Before they could arrest him, the man Apparated away. He left no traces behind.

But Albus could not believe such rumors.

For one, Harry shared his mother's bright green eyes. As far as Albus knew, Harry never seemed to resent this gift. Albus believed that Harry would never intentionally change his appearances. Although the boy received many remarks about how he looked like his father but had his mother's eyes, Harry either shrugged or smiled in response.

Secondly, and Albus frowned in disapproval, the fact that they had even considered that Harry would take a life – three, in fact! – was downright appalling. Based on the years that he had spent with the boy, and he had been closer to Harry more than any other student in his career, Harry would never kill innocents.

But did he really know the boy?

Time and time again, this dark-haired man appeared. Strangely, he did not participate in Death Eater raids nor did he even appear to have an identity. He was simply referred as the 'Master's Right Hand.' Albus felt guilty, but he had to consider the possibilities. The man was described as "fairly young" or in his "early twenties," which fit the description for Harry.

Time and time again, the Aurors came across him. And time and time again, the descriptions improved. He was quiet and fairly skilled in combat. He did not boast like other Death Eaters. Nor had he ever killed an Auror in any of his duels.

In fact, what caused Albus to consider that this man was, in fact, Harry Potter, was the fact that he had never cast a Dark curse of any kind besides the Killing Curse. Though this fact may seem irrelevant compared to the heinous crimes that the man had committed, the 'Master's Right Hand' seemed to be following direct orders from Lord Voldemort. He did not seem to relish in the task like other Death Eaters did. He seemed subdued and silent. There only to accomplish what his 'Master' desired.

Over time, Albus began accepting this man to be Harry Potter himself. After all, Lord Voldemort had not been looking for Harry for ten years. Moreover, Harry's friends remained untouched, with not a single casualty on their side. In fact, they, too, had grown, married, and started their own families. All of the Weasleys, with the exception of Percy and Charlie, had married off, with some of their children attending Hogwarts this year.

Albus remembered the chaos that Voldemort had caused just to claim the boy. Albus never looked at Harry as a burden, but he couldn't deny that the boy was a magnet for trouble.

Here, he smiled fondly.

But as he remembered the dark and despicable acts that the so-called Harry Potter had done, his smile faded. He recalled a conversation with Severus just this morning.

"You are allowing your emotions for the boy to taint your judgement," Severus had remarked harshly, after hours of convincing him that the 'Master's Right Hand' was Harry, "Whatever emotions you had built for the boy matters no more. That boy was past. He has shown his true self. He has chosen the Dark Lord."

He had then asked the irate Potion's Master whether he had ever seen this individual. But Severus shook his head and claimed that the Dark Lord only invites him for private meetings, with only the Dark Lord as company. He was never invited in for a full meeting with the rest of the Death Eaters. But Albus told Severus to track this young man and perhaps learn his identity ever-so-subtly. His position must not be jeopardized, he warned Severus. The Potion's Master had nodded and left with his cloak billowing behind him.

Sighing, Albus returned to his desk and linked his fingers together in silent meditation. All of the hints were stating that Harry had joined Voldemort.

But Albus could not convince himself.

When he had first met Harry, Albus had been startled to see that Harry Potter was a small, thin child with bright green eyes alight with curiosity and adventure. But Albus also saw a trickle of trepidation and timidity behind his gaze.

The boy was kind and humble, rarely discussed anything about himself but eager to listen to others. He was quiet and possessed a witty, dry humor that brought him to his best friend, Ron Weasley. His teachers remarked that he was a bright student and hardly unlikeable. Like his mother before him, Harry had a heart of gold. Everything about the boy's character directly contradicted what he had become.

Why had Harry chosen this path?

There must be a reason for his actions.

But how can there be reason in taking an innocent life? The Cornwall family, Raviti Jones, Hector Lannister, Catherine Grimmald and many others were all innocent. And if perhaps Voldemort had lied in order to convince Harry to kill them, why kill the blameless child or the wife of Micheal Cornwall? Voldemort had killed Lily and James Potter. Did his parents no longer matter to him? Or the Godfather that Harry had nearly pointed a wand in this very room with a desire to kill his own Headmaster in his grief?

Albus sighed again.

Perhaps it _was_ his emotions for the boy that kept him from believing that Harry had joined Voldemort. Or perhaps the only proof he had that kept his faith in his former student. He stood up from his desk and walked over to the pensive. From above, he could see the memory looming but he had watched it countless times before.

He did not wish to share the memory.

He feared that he would be betraying Harry's trust if he did. To reveal one's heart's desire was a difficult task. It required a tremendous amount of trust to be comfortable in sharing it.

He remembered the shock that Harry had when he looked into the mirror and found his parents – his whole family! – standing beside him. As the shock wore off, and Harry's visits increased, deep longing had filled the young boy.

How small he had been!

Albus remembered how unusual for a boy his age to not wish for wealth or presents or material things. Albus watched the boy as he continued to visit what he had thought was his parents. But as Harry became too attached to the mirror, Albus finally revealed himself. He had feared the boy would succumb to insanity if he did not intervene. He watched as his past self informed Harry of the truth regarding the Mirror of Erised and kindly warned him against these visits.

As the memory finished, Albus's faith in Harry renewed. Harry must surely have a reason for his actions. Surely a boy – or a man now – that wished for something as deep and meaningful as a family would not succumb to immorality.

A soft knock on the door startled Albus from his thoughts. The Headmaster collected his wits and schooled his features and walked back to his desk. A feeling of concern crossed over him as he invited the individual in. For a moment, he thought that Severus had returned from his meeting with the Death Eaters.

"Enter," Albus stated, setting aside the stack of parchment on his desk before facing the guest.

Ah, the man of the hour.

"'Morning, Professor," Ron Weasley greeted good-naturedly, stepping into the room. Albus was both delighted and ashamed to see his former student.

The boy had changed significantly over the years. Not only in character, but also in appearance. Ron had, if possible, grown even taller over the years and was currently working in the Ministry as an Auror. His marriage to Hermione Granger seemed to have placed a balm on his insecurities. No longer did Ron hide in the shadows.

In fact, he was standing before Albus with his back straight, head high. His hand tucked casually in his pocket. He was completely confident and content with himself. Albus was proud at the change. He had a wary expression, wondering why Albus had called him in.

However, the disappearance of his best friend affected his good humor. Ron no longer joked around or found humor in everything. In fact, he rarely ever smiled at all unless he attended large family gatherings or when his children were being silly. He seemed more serious and subdued these days. As if Harry had taken a part of his best friend with him when he had vanished.

Albus remembered how inseparable the two had been. They were brothers in all but blood. To see them separated pained Albus.

"Ah, Mr. Weasley," Albus replied, his eyes twinkling merrily. He recalled that Ron had left his expecting wife at home. "How many times must I ask you to call me Albus?"

Ron chuckled nervously and rubbed the back of his neck in shame.

"Sorry, Albus," the young man grimaced. "It's just a habit, I s'pose." Albus chuckled as Ron's ears reddened.

The usually composed Ron Weasley was at his mercy now.

"Ah, it is rather like my habit to pop a Lemon drop into my mouth every morning," Albus commented, linking his fingers and smiling at the exasperated young man. "After all, what is happiness without sweets!"

Ron rolled his eyes.

Typical Albus.

"Of course," Ron muttered, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He narrowed his eyes at his former Headmaster. "You haven't been getting your sweets from Fred and George, have you?"

Albus smiled at Ron's astuteness. He was definitely an Auror!

But Albus would never admit how he had blackmailed the twins into offering him a discount. The two had proved to be challenging negotiators. But years of practice in the art of persuasion had prepared Albus for the challenge. In the end, they had relented. After all, he was once their Headmaster!

Albus maintained an innocent façade.

"That is beside the matter," he waved his hand casually. From his perch, Fawkes flapped his wings and ruffled his feathers disapprovingly. Albus winked at him before turning towards his guest. "Though I admire your perceptiveness, I'm afraid that I have more pressing matters to discuss with you than sweets."

As Albus stood up from his desk, he watched from his peripheral vision as Ron's mood shifted from suspicion to concern.

"Albus?" he inquired warily. "There hasn't been another attack, has there?"

Albus recognized this distressed tone. He recalled a discussion that he and Ron had shared just before Ron graduated from Hogwarts. The young man had voiced his concerns about asking Hermione to marry him, especially in the midst of an ensuing war. His best friend's disappearance had broken Ron. He did not wish to lose Hermione the way that he had lost Harry. But Albus had warned Ron that if he continued to avoid what made him happy, it was almost as if he was not living at all. After all, death was an inevitable end. Sooner or later, all souls will perish.

Albus had implored him to seek Hermione's opinion regarding this matter. A week later, the two had married. And for the first time since Harry's disappearance, the couple laughed and smiled along with their family members.

Albus remembered admiring how similar Ron's concerns were to the late James Potter. James, too, had hesitated in his proposal. He was concerned about his wife's status as a Muggle-born. But in the end, he decided stubbornly that it was better to keep Lily close to him. With resilience, he promised that he would never let anyone cross her and vowed to defend her until his death.

Two years later, Albus was both dismayed and proud to find that James had kept his word.

In a distant voice, Albus spoke in a leveled tone.

"I'm afraid there has been," Albus affirmed. A sharp inhale from Ron caused the Headmaster to turn to face him. Albus's grim countenance left no room for doubt. "This time, however, the Ministry is involved."

Only recently, Ron had been granted with paternal leave as his wife approached the end of her pregnancy. Therefore, he had not known what had happened at the Ministry.

But Ron appeared agitated as he ran his hand through his hair.

"Was it - _him_?"

But Ron knew answer.

"Unfortunately, yes," Albus confirmed, his right hand stroking his beard in thought.

To everyone's alarm, the 'Master's Right Hand' had appeared in the Ministry itself disguised as an Ministry worker. It seemed that he had attempted to enter into the Department of Mysteries for what Albus suspected was the Prophecy before he was caught. The wards within the Department of Mysteries had detected Dark Magic.

All workers were told to remain behind closed doors until the situation was resolved. As the Aurors intervened and tried to corner him, he had mysteriously vanished on the spot. It was almost as if he was never there, which startled the Ministry. He could not have Apparated, that was certain. How he had managed to infiltrate the Ministry through all the wards and security was beyond Albus's knowledge.

Perhaps there were spies aiding him in the Ministry. An irrational part of him, however, wondered if this individual even possessed a tangible existence. Perhaps it was simply one of Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes.

But then, he remembered with an ache in his heart, that Harry was also a Horcrux.

He turned to face Ron once again. Ron had also heard the rumors and the theories of the Aurors, being an Auror himself. But he had expectedly rejected it. He did not want to believe that Harry had betrayed them.

To him, Harry was the one who had saved his sister in his Second Year. The one who had urged Ron to help him save Hermione from the troll in his First Year. He had been the first to appreciate Ron for who he was, rather than compare him to his brothers. His friend was brave and loyal. And Ron was adamant that he would never doubt him again, especially not what happened in his Fourth Year.

But Albus could no longer hide the truth. He had to tell Ron.

With a heavy heart, Albus levitated a chair to the middle of the room and invited the young man to take a seat. But Ron clenched his fists tightly and shook his head, a sense of denial coursing through him.

He knew what was coming.

But Albus began with a weary sigh.

"It seems that he was able to bypass all of the wards and protection around the Ministry," he paused. "The Aurors caught him as he tried to infiltrate the Department of Mysteries. It is my suspicion that Lord Voldemort sent him there to retrieve the Prophecy."

Ron regarded him with disbelief.

"H – How?" Ron breathed, his blue eyes wide. He shook his head, collecting his wits. "The Prophecy was smashed, remember? Harry -" Ron halted abruptly and a wistful expression crossed his features at his friend's name.

Albus understood him.

Rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses, Albus continued. "Yes, but you are forgetting that the Prophecy that Harry had destroyed was merely an item, an item that merely stored the information," but Ron looked bemused. "The true Prophecy lives on in the memories of the ones that heard it or witnessed it being told, one of them being myself."

Ron furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head.

"I don't understand," he said slowly. "Where are you going with this?"

Suddenly, Albus felt restless. With a jolt, he stood up from his desk and began pacing the room, muttering to whoever was listening.

"The Prophecy! The Prophecy! It exists only through the memories of those who heard it. It can never be destroyed, as long as those who heard it are alive and their memories are left untarnished. As long as one of them remembers it, the Prophecy exists. Do you understand now?" Impatiently, he turned to face Ron.

He waited for what seemed like hours before Ron looked up at him in horror.

"You're saying . . .?" he inquired, appalled. "That the Prophecy is still there in the Department of Mysteries because someone remembers it?"

Albus nodded, glad that Ron had caught on.

The Headmaster then continued pacing. "It has possibly hidden in another object. There are three individuals alive today that know the full Prophecy. Myself, Severus, and -"

"Harry," Ron breathed quietly.

Albus bowed his head.

"And Harry," Albus affirmed quietly. Ron was following his logic here. Albus simply needed to give him one more push in the right direction. "The only three that could access the Prophecy. And as Severus and I had an alibi yesterday, it is logical to conclude that the one who infiltrated the Ministry yesterday was -"

"Don't," Ron hissed angrily. He stood, fury in his eyes. His features slowly reddened until it matched the color of his hair. "I know what you're implying."

Albus bowed his head in regret.

"There is no other explanation, Ron," Albus stated firmly.

Oh, how he wished that there was someone to convince him that he was wrong. That Harry had not betrayed the light. That the friend that they had all grown to love had goodness left in him. A part of him _wanted_ to be proved wrong. But the evidence was overwhelming.

Harry Potter was no a longer a friend but an enemy.

"Like hell there isn't!" Ron bellowed harshly. He didn't care how rude he sounded. Harry was not a criminal. "You know as well as I do that Harry would never kill anyone, much less innocents! You knew him! He was your favorite student!"

The last statement hurt Albus more he ever dare to imagine.

He had never outright admitted to anyone, not even to Harry himself, what Harry meant to him. During all of his years at Hogwarts, he had always praised himself for not choosing favorites. While other Professor took special liking to one or two students, Albus distanced himself from all of them and kept them at arm's length, so every student would be treated fairly. But when Harry came along, the boy had immediately caught his attention.

Thin, and severely malnourished, the boy had clearly suffered abuse from his so-called guardians. Despite his abuse, however, Albus was amazed at how easily Harry adjusted. The boy did not seek wealth nor did he take advantage of his fame. In fact, he only seemed to resent it. The boy was a complete reversed version of Tom Riddle.

While one was spiteful, the other was humble.

There was always a sense of wonder and curiosity in his eyes. Albus remembered always watching him from afar, mostly out of concern for his well-being. Conflict and chaos seemed to follow him like hungry wolves. Albus could not recall one year that Harry did not come to him with tired eyes, torn and bloody robes, and a disheveled look.

But never did he complain.

Albus remembered terror filling his heart when he found the young boy sprawled on the floor with the Philosopher's Stone in his hand. At the time, he had thought that the boy had passed. But alas, Harry demonstrated his bravery and determination again and again, as year after year he awakened in the hospital wing after a reckless adventure.

Harry, too, had begun to trust him. As time passed, Albus's relationship with Harry shifted from an arm length's relationship to something deeper. Harry had started to trust him and consult him regarding his personal fears and ambitions. Though Albus hid many truths from Harry, he had never lied to him. He had always tried to reassure Harry as realistically as possible. He never gave Harry false hopes. Thus, they had developed a bond unlike no other. A bond akin to a father and a son.

He had mourned the boy's disappearance as much as Harry's friends did.

Perhaps even more so.

Albus said in a broken tone. "I do not know what has lead Harry to this path, nor will I pretend to understand," he turned away from Ron's glare. "but there is no doubt that Harry is Lord Voldemort's Right Hand."

There was the finality in his voice. He will no longer convince himself otherwise over what has become of his former student.

Ron also sensed his solidity in his theory. Endless silence followed as the two became vastly absorbed in their thoughts.

Ron snapped his head up.

"What about his eye color? Harry has always had green eyes. How can they change color?"

But Albus did not respond. Something was holding him back.

He had always suspected that somehow Voldemort was involved. That somehow Voldemort had managed to get through Harry's mind. But how can he? Hadn't Harry proved himself able to break out of Voldemort's possession back in the Ministry? If he did, in fact, have the red eyes that he did now, did that mean that Harry had lost his humanity? Had Voldemort taken his sanity by capturing him? Was Harry really not capable of feeling love anymore? What sort of horrors had Harry seen to completely lose his ability to feel love? Had he suffered beyond measure? Was it because Voldemort had isolated him from his friends?

Was that why Harry had become possessed by Voldemort?

Had he let himself become that way?

A large part of him didn't want to believe it. He couldn't believe that the kind, humble young boy that he met fifteen years ago had lost the ability to feel love. That was the only way that Voldemort could possess him. If Harry stopped feeling for others . . . If he lost his purpose to live. He couldn't. Harry had a heart of gold. He couldn't have lost his humanity.

But what else would explain his rather distinctive eye color?

" _If death is nothing, Dumbledore, kill the boy_ . . ."

Had Voldemort been right? Should he really have killed the boy? Perhaps to save all of Harry's future victims - all the men, women, and children that had died by his wand?

Perhaps . . . for the greater good?

Unable to respond, he sank into his chair, laid his elbows on the desk, and covered his face with his hands.

His grief over Harry would certainly kill him. He had, and always will, blame himself for letting the boy slip out of his grasp. For ten years, he had shouldered the blame, and he would continue until Harry himself eased his burden.

Though it sounded childish, all he wanted to do right now was grab Harry by the shoulders and shake him until he learned the truth about his change of heart. How could someone so good become so evil? Nothing in his character or mannerism or appearance had ever hinted it. What had become of their beloved friend?

Albus did not look up when he heard the dejected sigh and the sound of a door closing. He had wanted to congratulate Ron about the ensuing birth of his second child, but he could not manage to do even that. He simply allowed the soothing hum of a Phoenix fill him with the false hope that maybe . . . perhaps someday . . . Harry would return pure and unscathed, like he had been as a boy.

* * *

With a heavy heart, Ron returned to the cabin that he and Hermione lived in. Home, in other words. The cabin was situated on the edge of a steep hill that overlooked a small lake. The area was very serene and simple, which perfectly accented the couple's relationship. For the first time, however, he entered the cabin with mixed feelings.

After his conversation with Dumbledore, he did not think that he could look at Hermione in the eye and tell her what had become of their former friend. The news would break her. But he could not hide the truth from her, either. She was very perceptive; she quickly caught on if he was hiding something from her.

Pinching his nose, he silently cursed Harry. He vowed that, if he ever found his former friend, he would be the one taking his life. Immediately after this thought, however, he felt guilty. He didn't know if he could ever take Harry's life. Perhaps it was simply a burst of anger and grief that had morphed these thoughts.

"Daddy?"

A small tug on Ron's robes startled him. He snapped open his eyes and found young Rosè looking up at him with tired eyes. The young imp was rubbing her eyes with one hand and holding a stuffed animal in another, her bushy red hair falling all over her face. Ron's mood immediately lightened up, and he smiled at the sight of her. He bent down, swooped her up in his arms, and pecked her on the head as he took her to the living room. There, he found Hermione asleep on the couch, her stomach bulging, and her breathing soft.

"Mummy sleep," Rose whispered tiredly. A big yawn escaped her as she tucked her head near her father's neck. She was so tired.

Ron merely chuckled fondly.

"Yeah, I reckon we should keep her there," he joked in a whisper as he led her out of the living room into the kitchen. "Don't want her hurling frying pans or wooden sticks at us, do we?"

But Rosè frowned and thought deeply for a moment. Then she said seriously. "No, I don't think that's a good idea."

Ron laughed at how similar she sounded to Hermione. He then started to tickle her mercilessly. Though he knew how tired she was, he did not want to lose his only companion. She had successfully distracted him from his dreary thoughts, and he did not wish to return to them.

Not today.

* * *

R&R!


	2. Chapter 2: Family Gatherings

Note: this story is set _after_ OOTP. So everything before that is canon.

* * *

"Goodness, Ron!" Hermione reprimanded from downstairs. "We can't keep your mother waiting all day!"

With a childish sulk, Ron stomped down the stairs, his hands in his pockets with a glare at the impatient woman. She couldn't give him five minutes! With a return glare, Hermione collected her disheveled hair in a bun and adjusted her rucksack irritably.

"Blimey, woman!" Ron cried, throwing his hands in the air. "We aren't meeting the bloody Minister of Magic. It's just my parents!"

He couldn't understand why everything had to be so formal around his parents. They didn't care what time they arrived, as long as they arrived.

"Language, Ron!" Hermione admonished irritably. She tilted her head towards her daughter pointedly. Ron grimaced. "I've been telling you to get dressed since nine. And besides, it's rude to keep them waiting. We promised them Hugo!"

After his meeting with Albus Dumbledore, Ron had returned to his cabin and had spent the night awake with his daughter, Rosè. In short, they had caused chaos in the kitchen. Ron had been teaching her various spells: cooking spells, dueling spells, and defensive spells. But Rosè had been unable to pronounce the words correctly; after all, she was only four years old. Startled by the sound of broken dishes and lopsided countertops, she had cried miserably into her father's arms.

Ron, however, had stifled his laughter in her hair as he patted her back reassuringly. Hermione, too, had woken up. When she caught sight of her once beloved kitchen, her features had begun to redden and she had just opened her mouth to scream when the pain in her belly had stopped her. Twelve hours later, she had given birth to a boy that she named Hugo. Thus, his parents had invited them for a large family gathering, where they would meet Hugo for the first time.

"Alright, Alright," Ron muttered, strapping his cloak around his shoulders. When he finished, he bent down to strap Rose's cloak and addressed her quietly. "I didn't sign up for this, you know?" Rosè looked bemused.

Ron sighed.

Bloody women!

"Did you grab your clothes? You know we're staying the night."

"Yes."

"All the lights are shut off?"

Ron pinched his nose.

"Yes."

"Your wand?"

Ron reached inside his robes and pulled it out, almost shoving the object under her nose.

"Good. You've finally learned some responsibility, then."

Ron tilted his head back in annoyance and groaned. He was a bloody Auror! Of course he knew where his wand was! He silently vowed to never allow this woman to carry another child again. Hermione was a nightmare before and after her pregnancy. Huffing, Ron glared down when Rosè elicited a small giggle. The bickering of her parents was always a source of amusement for her.

"Let's get out of here before I lose whatever sanity I have left," Ron stated, holding the door open for the lovely ladies to pass through, his face drawn into a scowl. As Hermione attempted to pass, she abruptly stopped and narrowed her eyes at him.

"We're taking the car," she declared, confirming his worst fears before she passed.

Ron was gobsmacked.

As soon as he had passed his Muggle driver's license test, Hermione had outright refused any form of Magical transportation. She believed that Flooing and Apparating produced negative affects on the children, especially when accompanied with the feeling of suffocation or perhaps the fear of accidentally Splinching them. She didn't think it was healthy at all for the children, especially new-borns. But Ron thought her theory was ridiculous. He was born from a magical family who had regularly Apparated and Flooed along with the children. He, himself, was proof enough. But Hermione remained stubborn.

Rubbing his forehead, he reckoned that he shouldn't try to reason with her.

At least, not today.

Sighing wearily, he shut the door, muttered a protection spell, and left with his cloak billowing behind him. In the stillness of the night, he listened to the sounds of chirps and the howls of the residents of the forest. He circled towards the back of the cabin where the Ford Angila was parked. Hagrid had found the car smashed against a tree in the Forbidden Forest. There had been no life left in her. Thus, Hagrid, knowing the passion that Ron's father had for Muggle objects, had furtively brought the car to Arthur, unbeknownst to Molly. Ron remembered that his father had worked day and night to fix the blasted car.

Wincing, Ron wished that this father had never fixed it.

Behind the cabin, Ron found Hermione tucking Hugo into the backseat.

"Can you buckle Rosè in for me?" she inquired, pushing back locks of bushy hair. "I'm rather busy at the moment."

Despite his annoyance with her, he nodded.

As soon as they finished, the two took their respective seats in the front, Hermione tucked in the passenger's seat. She furrowed her eyebrows impatiently, waiting for him to start the car.

"Well?" she inquired agitatedly. "We don't have all day!"

Ron grunted as he turned on the engine. Swallowing his anxiety, he reached for a button, internally praying that she would agree.

"Can't we just -?" he begged.

"No."

"We'll get there faster!"

" _No_ , Ronald."

"We don't want to be running late, do we?"

"You can tell your mother that when we arrive."

Ron slumped dejectedly.

Swearing under his breath, he turned his body around, placed a hand on Hermione's seat, and reversed out of the cabin. As they left, a comfortable silence fell over the family as they watched the enigmatic shadows of the mountains and the dark blanket covering of the land. While the light of the mornings revealed all truths of the land, the night concealed it behind a veil of nothingness, leaving the observor to interpret the moving shadows of the night.

With a start, Ron suddenly recalled that he had not told Hermione of what had happened to Harry. But as he glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, he realized that he did not want her to dwell on it. Though she had irritated to him to no end today, she still seemed content as she watched the capricious pictures of the outdoors. And since they were attending a family gathering, such dreary news would ruin her day. Ron decided to keep the information to himself for now.

But the thought of Harry was enough to bring his own mood down.

Was Dumbledore right? Had Harry betrayed them? Was ten years with Voldemort really enough to change him? He wondered how Voldemort had managed to convince the most stubborn person alive to join forces with him? Harry was so stubborn that he was the only one in his Year who had managed to resist the Imperius Curse. He was also prone to defying authority, even going as far as rejecting his own Headmaster's orders.

What had changed?

With dread in his heart, Ron realized that he would never know the answer until he found Harry. But since Voldemort's location was unknown, then Harry's, too, was forever unknown.

"Daddy," Rosè whispered tiredly, startling him out of his thoughts.

Ron looked at her questionably through the rear view window. Though it was dark, he could see that she was blushing.

"I've really got to go," she said bashfully, biting her lip. From the passenger's seat, Hermione threw him an exasperated look.

Ron shook his head and sighed.

They both knew what that meant.

After the delay, they continued their ride to the Burrow. To Rose's irritation, Hugo had started to whine and wiggle in his seat irritably. Hermione tried to give him several words of assurances since she couldn't reach behind the seat to tend to him, but they fell on deaf ears. As the car started to become too noisy, Ron squinted into the distance and nearly crashed the car in his relief when he glimpsed their destination. The Burrow was practically glowing, with floating lamplights and luminescent trees to illuminate the place. In the distance, Ron spotted the shadow of his brothers as they helped Molly set the table in the backyard.

"Ah, we made it!" he exclaimed merrily, his loud tone rousing Rosè from her slumber. She sat up when she saw the lights and eagerly urged her father to stop the car. Hermione smiled at her daughter's excitement. It had been too long since they had attended family gatherings.

As Ron turned off the car, he heard cheers in the distance as his family welcomed him and his own family home. As he exited the car, he was immediately tackled to the ground by the twins.

"Look here, George! Our ickle Ronnikins is all grown up!" Fred swooned, pretending to blow his nose on a handkerchief.

"I see it now, Fred. Who will take his place as our only younger brother?" George cried out. He stole the handkerchief from Fred and blew on it. He then tried to rub the handkerchief on Ron's face, but Ron shoved it away in disgust.

"Gerroff me, you gits!" Ron exclaimed, batting their hands away.

Although they annoyed him to no end, he could not suppress the grin that was slowly forming onto his features. But they seemed distracted as Hermione brought young Hugo to his uncles.

"Fred, George," she addressed them with a smile and gestured to the child in her arms. "I'd like you to meet Hugo. Your nephew." For the first time, however, they were speechless.

They looked at each other in horror.

"Hugo?!" they exclaimed simultaneously.

"That doesn't sound very Weasley to me," Fred remarked sourly and shot a glare at Ron.

Ron appeared indignant.

"I'm not naming my son after you!" he shouted, remembering the conversation that he had with the twins. Fred gasped and placed a hand to his heart.

"Oh, brother," he cried out, his voice strained as if he was in pain. "You wound me. C-Catch me, George. I might be dying." He tried to lean against his brother, but George side-stepped him which caused Fred to tumble down into the dirt.

"Traitor!" Fred shouted at his twin.

With a cry, he tackled George and they both started to wrestle with each other. Ron and Rosè laughed at their quarrel. Hermione rolled her eyes amusedly, trying to sooth the waking child in her arms.

"What's all the fuss here?" said a flustered Arthur Weasley. Ron chuckled at the sight of his father's disoriented look and lopsided spectacles. Arthur had only heard the shouts coming from outside and had inferred the worst. But as soon as he caught sight of the twins locked into a quarrel, he relaxed. But as he caught sight of Ron and Hermione, his eyes widened dramatically. "At last, you're here! Molly and I have been fright with worry. And where is little Hugo?"

Hermione smiled fondly at her father-in-law. She walked to him and placed the child in his arms. His hand traced across the boy's cheeks. He looked up with unshed tears in his eyes, he reached up and embraced her.

"It's a lovely name," he whispered, his voice clogged with emotions.

And Hermione was relieved.

"Oi, where's my share in all this?" Ron interjected, his arms crossed in mock-offense. Arthur laughed. He knew that Ron didn't really take offense in getting shoved to the side. But as Arthur moved to embrace Ron, the twins, eager to take the mickey out of Ron, started to shower him with affection instead.

"You did well, Ronnikins!" gushed Fred, who had Ron's head tucked under his armpit.

"We're so proud!" George said, ruffling his brother's hair affectionately.

Arthur and Hermione laughed as Ron tried to detangle himself from his brothers.

"Let's just hope this little bugger doesn't turn up like his father, shall we?" interjected another voice. Ron glared at his older brother, but Bill simply laughed at him. Delighted to see her uncle, Rosè tackled her uncle Bill into an embrace. In response, her uncle lifted her up and gave her a slight twirl.

"Alright there, Rosè?" said Bill with a warm smile as she shrugged timidly in response. "Dominque's waiting for you upstairs. Said she's got a surprise."

But Rosè looked at him curiously. "What is it?"

"Dunno, do I?" He lied effortlessly. She pierced him with a suspicious look before running off to find her cousin.

"Nice save, Bill." George complimented with a wink.

His brother simply smirked.

"Wait until Mum sees this," Bill commented, glancing down at the squirming child in his father's arms. "I reckon she'll have a fit."

Molly Weasley was always emotional after the birth of a grandchild.

"She already has," Ginny walked in, and Ron startled at the sight of her. He hadn't seen her since her marriage. He looked behind her and found her loathsome husband, Winston Bridges, standing in the doorway of the Burrow chatting with Percy. He absolutely detested that man. "She heard the car shut off. She's coming now." Then, she walked up to Ron, batted away her other brothers, and swept him into an embrace.

"Congratulations, Ron," she whispered.

Ron unconsciously tightened the embrace. She had forgiven him despite his displeasure at her wedding. His little sister would always have a special place in his heart, but that didn't mean any of her spouses earned that title, too. When she pulled away, Ron spotted unshed tears in her eyes as she moved towards Hermione and likewise embraced her.

"We've left poor Molly alone in the kitchen," Arthur interjected worriedly over the brotherly quarrels and the cooing women. "She's already spent the day preparing the meal. Let's help her set the tables, shall we?"

They all nodded.

As they ventured inside, the residents of the Burrow erupted into cheers and whistles when they saw Ron and Hermione enter. The males stood up to shake Ron's hands as the females kissed Hermione's cheek. Molly, suspecting their arrival, peeked out of the kitchen. Her eyes widened at the sight of her son.

"Oh, you're here!" she exclaimed with a hand to her mouth. Ron rolled his eyes fondly as she stepped towards them and swept them both in an embrace. As she drew back, Ron was not surprised to see tears in her eyes. "For a moment, I thought you wouldn't make it." Hermione transferred Hugo to his grandmother.

"Sorry we were late, Molly," she apologized with a glare at Ron. "Ron held us up, so we had to take the car." With a return glare, Ron slumped his shoulders and groaned in defeat.

But Molly wasn't listening. Her attention was fixed onto the infant.

"He looks just like you," she addressed Ron with a whisper. Like Arthur, her voice was clogged with emotion as she stroked the feathery texture of the hair. Ron simply smiled when she looked up.

After collecting her emotions, Molly berated herself, returned the child to Hermione, and strode back to the kitchen. As soon as she returned, Bill, Fred, George, Ron and their wives offered to help her. Though she was appreciative of the help, she hesitated at the twins, knowing they would cause trouble. But in the end, she relented. As the brothers travelled back and forth, they used spells to balance plates on their heads. Or, in Fred's case, balance a plate on each finger. Bill simply levitated the plates and silverware while Ron summoned a cloth and draped it around the table. The women simply carried the plates the traditional way and implored Hermione to rest.

As Ron worked outside, however, Bill caught the twins' eyes and grinned.

Eyes narrowed, the older brother flicked his wand casually, and sent a dozen forks and knives towards Ron. Suddenly, Ron found himself pressed against the wall with silverware stabbed into his robes, holding him up.

"Oi!" he shouted indignantly, trying to detach himself. "You could've killed me, you bastards!" But Bill, Fred, and George cackled with laughter.

"Shame that didn't happen," a new voice interjected. Ron wrinkled his nose disgustedly as his grinning brother, Charlie, approached. "But I don't think Hermione will appreciate it much if we did."

"She bloody well not!" Ron warned.

Suddenly, his brothers stopped teasing him and looked behind Charlie with eyes filled with horror. Curious, Ron followed their gazes and a smirk formed onto his features.

Apparently finished with the kitchen, Molly Weasley was standing in the field with her hands on her hips, her flaming red hair aloft with the wind, and her snouts wide with anger. Standing behind her with a smirk, however, was their younger sister Ginny, who had apparently ranted on her brothers. Her brothers looked alarmed by the sight of their mother. They couldn't even muster the strength to glare at their traitorous sister.

"A fine example you're setting for the children!" she admonished with a red face. To emphasize her point, she gestured to the children who were laughing at the sight of their uncle Ron, especially young Fred and George. The twins had thought that it would be funny to name their sons after each other. Fred had named his son George while George had named his son Fred. "You've all grown and married! I shouldn't be scolding you as if you were still children."

Ron watched in amusement as his brothers bowed their heads and said collectively.

"Sorry, Mum."

"Sorry for setting a good example," Fred whispered, causing those close to him to snicker quietly.

"I heard that, Fred Weasley!"

"Fred? But I'm George," he lied, outraged as his parents sat at the head of the table. "Honestly, woman."

"You're not George. You're Forge!" said George with a shake of his head. "Honestly, Gred."

"But I'm George!" said George's son, playing along with his uncles.

"And I'm Fred!" interjected Fred's son.

The table erupted with laughter as the family tucked in for dinner. The backyard hummed with conversation as Ron looked around at the various guest. There was Remus Lupin, his wife and son, Ginny's husband, who was locked into a conversation with Percy, Angelina and Katie, the wives of Fred and George, Fleur, and Audrey, Percy's fiancé. Despite the fear of being separated by the war, everyone seemed content. Moments like this made Ron wonder where Harry could have fit in, had he not betrayed them.

Would he have joined in their family gatherings?

While attending Hogwarts, Ron had an irrational fear that, when he and his friends finally graduated from Hogwarts, that they each would forge their own paths and separate from each other. Hermione had proven that wrong by marrying him.

But Harry . . . Harry had scared him the most. Quiet as he was, his friend was reckless. Harry didn't know how to stay in one place. His endless curiosity had driven his thirst for adventure. Furthermore, the fact that he was the most wanted man alive had intensified Ron's fear of losing his friend. Harry was always in danger of being taken away.

Ron had feared that, when the time comes, Harry would forget about him. Perhaps even leave the country. Or perhaps be taken by death. But Ron would never know what his friend would have done. Harry had never even gotten the opportunity to graduate from Hogwarts.

Sighing miserably, Ron felt Hermione's hand slip into his. When he glanced at her, she awarded him with a questioning but concerned look. But Ron shook his head and mouthed "Later."

As the children grew tired, everyone stood up to help Molly clean the table. When they finished, they all gathered in the living room beside the fireplace. They, mainly Fred and George, shared stories regarding a certain product in their joke shop that caused the consumer to elicit animal sounds.

They claimed that they had to escort a teenager out of the shop after he started barking at anyone who entered the shop and another obnoxious girl who had started snorting like a pig to her mother after every sentence. The twins had stood up and demonstrated their stories, which caused the whole room to explode with laughter. Slowly, the room began to empty as one by one, they fell victim to sleep. Thus, Molly laid a large blanket on the floor for the females and the children, and ushered the males upstairs.

"Is everyone comfortable?" Molly inquired worriedly to the girls, with Arthur standing behind her. "I'm not missing anyone?"

"We're alright, Molly," said Angelina, tucking young Fred under the blankets. "You get some rest. Don't you have a hoot about us."

"But-"

"I'll take this," Arthur interjected, steering Molly by the shoulders. "Upstairs. Good night, girls."

"Oh, Arthur," Molly huffed at him and shook her head, "What if they need something?"

But the rest of the argument was muffled as they made their way to their bedroom. As soon as they were gone, Hermione turned to Ginny, eager to hear more information about her wedding.

"Well, Ginny?" she prodded the red-haired girl. Ginny looked up at her questionably as she placed a hand behind her head, "How was your wedding?"

But Ginny winced.

"Er – well, I suppose?"

But Hermione frowned at the response. That didn't sound good.

"Ginny isn't used to settling down, Hermione," Angelina interjected with a snicker at the glaring red-haired. "Married life is beyond her."

But Hermione was both startled and amused.

"Is that true?" she addressed her sister-in-law, who had drawn her pillow over her blushing face in her embarrassment. "Oh, Ginny," she said fondly, shaking her head. "You'll get used to it. You'll see."

"I'll hold you to that." Ginny promised in a muffled tone, which caused quiet giggles in the room.

They continued to converse into the night until they heard one of the doors creak open. They stifled their laughter when they heard Molly scolding the boys upstairs. Sure enough, Molly had woken up to ensure that everyone was comfortable when she opened Ron's bedroom to find all of the boys awake, casting various spells and curses at each other. They had placed a Silencing charm in the room. But Molly sent them to bed with a promise that if they didn't wake in time for breakfast, she wouldn't let them have dessert. They begged her to reconsider, but Molly was stubborn.

Sure enough, the next morning, they missed breakfast.

* * *

So, this chapter was a bit light-hearteded, but it's going to get darker from here.

R&R!


	3. Chapter 3: Hidden Truths

Warning: I might not be updating as frequently. Been very busy.

* * *

When Ron awoke the next morning, he was startled by the taciturn manner in which he had awaken. Usually, one of the children or the twins would scream in his ears until he woke, but this time the house was unusually quiet. He could only hear soft whispers downstairs. Ron inferred that perhaps his brothers had returned to their workplaces. After dressing into his robes, the red-haired young man descended down to the kitchen. He could smell his mother's cooking.

As he passed, he peeked inside the living room to find it relatively empty. It seemed that everyone had returned to their respective homes while he was asleep. Judging by the dim gleam of the sun, he must have overslept. Ron retracted and winced when he thought how his mother would react to his laziness. But as soon as he stepped inside the kitchen, he found his parents sitting at the table, whispering furiously to each other. When he entered the room, they looked up at him with regret and guilt behind their gazes.

Ron assumed the worst.

"Good morning, dear," greeted Molly quietly, her fingers linking and unlinking as if she was unsure how to compose herself. Arthur nodded at him with a grave expression on his face.

"What happened?" Ron asked.

They were hiding something. That much was apparent. But as his parents opened their mouths to explain, Hermione emerged from the backyard. She was shaking uncontrollably with a roll of paper in her hand.

And Ron suddenly felt nauseous.

"Have you seen this?" she whispered in a broken tone.

She had a look of betrayal in her eyes as she lifted up the Daily Prophet. On the cover, Ron saw an image of a hooded man glancing down from above Ollivander's building with a vacant expression on his face before Apparating on the spot. The article was titled _Harry Potter has Returned_! But Ron gave his wife with a forlorn look. Before he could open his mouth to respond, his father interrupted.

"Come now, Hermione," Arthur intervened. He looked at her from above the rim of his glasses. "The Prophet's been wrong before, especially about Harry. You can't possibly take their word as fact."

But Hermione shook her head. She remembered when Ron had complained to her about the rumors that were spreading across his co-workers. What alarmed her was the fact that seven years later, the rumor was as strong as ever. False or irrelevant rumors tended to die down after a while.

But this one didn't.

She gave Ron a desperate look, praying that he would lay these rumors to rest.

"Tell me this isn't true," she pleaded, her hands trembling. "It can't be."

Ron's heart clenched.

He had never seen her so desperate for answers. She was always the one with the answers, but now she was begging him for answers.

But Ron approached her, draped an arm around her shoulders, and led her to the living room. He sat her down on the couch beside him. Wearily, he placed his elbows on his knees and averted her eyes from her tearful ones. He waited until she had composed herself before he opened his mouth to explain.

"I met Dumbledore three days ago," he said wearily, running his hand through his hair. "And – well . . . you remember the attack on the Ministry, right?"

Hermione nodded.

"Well, Dumbledore reckoned that Voldemort had recruited someone to help him out. Someone who was willing," his voice wilted. "Someone that could access the Prophecy."

Hermione stiffened.

"But the Prophecy was destroyed!" she exclaimed.

"It wasn't," Ron confirmed. "It's taken up residence somewhere in the Department of Mysteries. Only the ones that know the full Prophecy can access it."

"Ron-" she warned, but he cut her off.

"Let me finish, Hermione," he closed his eyes and pinched his nose. "There are only three people today that know the full Prophecy. Dumbledore, Snape, and Harry," he ignored her sharp inhale. "But Dumbledore and Snape were seen in Hogwarts by the time the Ministry was infiltrated. That means . . ."

"But he didn't get in," she interjected forcibly. "The wards around the Department of Mysteries detected Dark magic. Then, he disappeared. You can't assume that he would've gained access to the Prophecy."

But Ron, feeling restless and agitated, stood up.

"D'you think Voldemort is stupid enough to send one of his men inside the Ministry if he thought they couldn't access the Prophecy?" Ron paced the room, trying to mitigate the feeling of betrayal in his heart. "You remember our Fifth Year, don't you? Why d'you think Voldemort tricked Harry into handing him the Prophecy? Harry has access to it."

But Hermione shook her head furiously. Tears dripped onto her open hands. For once, her emotions overruled her logic.

"It's not Harry," she whispered, refusing to think ill of her friend. "Harry would never hurt anyone."

Ron sighed and plumped back down beside her. He took her hands as she looked at him with puffy eyes.

"When the Aurors caught him breaking into the Ministry, they said he disappeared on the spot. As if he was never there," before Hermione could open her mouth, Ron continued. "He can't have Apparated. There are Anti-Apparation wards all across the whole Ministry. Disappearing on the spot . . . Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

"The Invisibility Cloak," Hermione breathed in horror. Her eyes drifted across the living room. "Dumbledore never found it in the Dursley home. Or Harry's wand. He must've taken it with him when the Death Eaters arrived."

Ron nodded.

A deafening silence befell. They mourned the loss of their best friend. He was as good as dead to them. There were no words of comforts. No reassurances. They accepted the truth. Their once beloved friend had betrayed them for reasons that were unknown.

Overtime, the entire Wizarding World learned of Harry Potter's betrayal, though they were divided over the issue. One group believed that the Chosen One had proven himself loyal time and time again and thus kept their faith in him. The other group expressed their disdain for him and remarked that they had always known that the boy was wrong in the head.

But Harry's friends didn't know what to think. They couldn't ignore the fact that their friend had claimed many lives over the course of ten years. But they also couldn't dismiss the fact that he had saved many more as a young boy. In the end, they decided to limit their judgements until they received further information from Harry himself perhaps.

As time passed and these questions persisted, however, Harry's friends had started to take down pictures of themselves with their friend. No longer did they gaze upon his pictures with longing and regret. No longer did they praise Harry for his accomplishments, his bravery, or his loyalty. He was no longer regarded as a hero. In fact, they hardly mentioned him at all, not even to their children. They simply warned them to never cross paths with this man, if they ever met him.

Though they felt guilty for condemning their friend, overtime, fear and betrayal began to dominate their emotions.

As Harry's friends slowly denounced their friend, Albus, too, had begun to doubt his former student. Influenced by the disdainful scoffs or expressions of disgust of the members of the Order when Harry's name was mentioned, Albus was slowly losing faith in Harry Potter. If even Harry's friends had doubted him, and they had known Harry better than Albus, then why was he grappling at loose threads? Why was he so adamant that, despite the cold and disturbing crimes that Harry had committed, that Harry had goodness left in him?

Perhaps it was instinct.

Albus learned at a young age to always trust his instinct. After all, his instinct had detected young Tom Riddle's insincerity when the boy had accused Hagrid of killing young Moaning Myrtle. Furthermore, he had suspected that Lord Voldemort would return from the dead, though Harry Potter had apparently killed him as an infant. The only time his instinct ever led him to contentious paths was when he befriended Gellert Grindewald.

At the thought of Grindewald, Albus shook his head and cast his thoughts aside and continued to walk down Shreveport Alley.

An ethereal mist had settled over the roofs of the shops and houses. The once bustling Alley was unusually forlorn. The lights cowered behind the mist. Occasionally, the blurred outline of a shadow crossed Albus's path. Cloaked figures nodded their greetings to Albus, their expression grim and subdued.

Due to its large Muggle-born population, Shreveport Alley had become targeted by Lord Voldemort. If any child from this area expressed the slightest hint of magic, their wands would be immediately confiscated and snapped. The child would then be escorted to an unknown destination where "disciplinary measures" will be taken against them.

When Albus first heard the news, he had been downright appalled. Not only was the Ministry of Magic blind to the disappearance of the children in this area. But they refused to even acknowledge the fact that Muggle-borns were the main victims. These incidents could have been avoided if the Ministry would simply take precautionary measures against these acts.

But Albus sighed and watched his breath flow out in front of him. It was fruitless to reason with the Ministry. They didn't care what happened to their fellow witches and wizards as long as they received their pay checks at the end of the week. They didn't bother themselves with the idle Dark Lord, who had not appeared in public for ten years nor did they bother with mitigating the amount of Death Eater raids per year. Wealth and happiness were all that concerned them, and Albus shook his head in grave disapproval.

What strange creatures humans were.

Snapping out of his reflection, Albus noticed a waning light coming from one of the shops at the end of the Alley. He looked up at the sound of bells colliding and found the owner of the shop staring warily across the Alley, one arm holding the door open. It was almost as if he was waiting for someone. Albus wondered if this was the man that he was looking for.

Albus lowered the hood of his cloak further down his face. As he approached the man, his hand discreetly reached into his pockets where his wand was.

Though the man looked genuine, caution was a necessary tool these days.

"Pardon me, good fellow," Albus greeted him with a respectful nod. He gazed at the man with piercing blue eyes. But the man looked rightfully suspicious. "For I am led astray by my good friend. Pray tell, where might I find the Cauldron's Carnival?"

At the title, the man's hazel eyes widened in startled realization as he gazed upon his former Headmaster.

"Albus?" Reddick Winfrey hissed to the opaque figure of Albus Dumbledore. "Is that you?"

Albus nodded.

Winfrey scanned the area for bystanders before he nodded pointedly to the open door.

When Albus entered Winfrey's Cabin, he was not surprised to find it relatively dark and empty. There were only a few elderly men like himself concealed behind the shadows, their expressions stern and grim. There was little social interactions. In fact, most individuals were scattered and relatively isolated. They preferred to engross in their own thoughts, rather than engage in reckless conversation.

Dim, floating candles flickered light onto their faces, though the room remained largely clothed in darkness. The walls and ceilings were drenched with mold and hanging moss. The planks of the floor remained aloft and relatively unwashed. No one looked up when Albus entered. None even registered his presence, even though he was relatively well known. They were all captivated by their own misery.

"Didn't think you'd show up by the minute," grunted Winfrey, shooting Albus a glare. He led Albus to an isolated table at the corner of the room. "Never took you as the punctual type."

With a wave of his hand, he gestured for the bar-man to order drinks. When he offered Albus a drink, Albus kindly declined.

"You seemed desperate," Albus confessed calmly, his eyes scanning the room for a hint of what Winfrey had called him for. But Winfrey simply downed his drink in one breath. The liquid sloshed all over his robes.

"Sure as hell I was," he grunted, his voice raspy. He wiped the liquid from his face with his sleeve and bellowed for another drink, "Gave me a right scare, she did. All of a sudden," he hiccuped, "Shows up in my fireplace askin' me where Dumbledore is," he shook his fist furiously. "Then I told her, 'Do I look like his shadow? Get out of my house!' But she was stubborn. Said she won't leave until she met you. I tell you. The girl lacks brawn, but she's got some spunk."

He shrugged.

"And how old is this girl?" Albus inquired, his fingers stroking his beard in thought.

Perhaps it was a girl that he knew.

"Middle teens," Winfrey stated with an offhand wave of his hand. "But who gives a damn about her age?" he slammed his palm onto the table and muttered. "Barking mad, she is. You'll never get a reasonable response without her wailing like a banshee."

Albus's frown of disapproval was lost on the drunken man.

But middle teens? Middle teens meant that she had probably attended Hogwarts. Was this girl one of the Muggle-born students that had mysteriously vanished? Only this year, Albus could only recall four Muggle-born students that had left Hogwarts. Three of them were found to have been transferred to different schools while the fourth had apparently refused to return due to the death of his parents. Then again, these explanations had been given by the Ministry.

Albus remembered how bewildered he had been when he realized that all four students were of Muggle descent. But he never confirmed whether these explanation were accurate. But even if he checked over them, would he find real evidence or spurious evidence?

"But you know something?" Winfrey elicited a raspy cough. He leaned forward, his bloodshot eyes wide, "I reckon she's got a hold of one of the articles in the Daily Prophet. Been on about a dark-haired man for hours now. Always on about how he saved her from the hell she was in. I reckon she's gone bonkers, Albus. Whether she wants to hear it or not, one girl's batting eyelashes isn't going to change the mind of a mass murderer."

He shook his head.

But Albus asked in a careful tone, "By any chance, did she describe this man? Other than the fact that he was dark-haired?"

Albus's heart sank when the man shook his head.

"Come now, Albus," he leaned back into his chair, "You don't actually believe in this loony, do you?" Albus glared, but Winfrey laughed scornfully, "Oh, I'll show you to her. Don't doubt me on that. But honestly," he leaned forward and lowered his voice, "It's not uncommon these days for young girls to swoon over their favorite antagonist. These articles are creating that impression for the feeblest of minds. To sympathize with the enemy . . . What girl doesn't fawn over the dark and mysterious villain that lurks behind the shadows? This girl is mad, I tell you. Completely barmy. Did I mention that she was captured by the Aurors?" Winfrey cackled, though the residents of the bar didn't stir. "That's what she claimed. She's got it all backwards, she does. All lopsided in the head."

But Albus only half-listened.

Though the man's insolence irritated him to no end, the information that he had given about the girl had caught Albus off guard. She was captured by the Aurors. She claimed to have been saved by a dark-haired man. She wanted to speak to him.

Did she know him, perhaps?

Frustrated by the lack of response, he turned to Winfrey.

"And where is this young girl?"

Winfrey looked taken back by Albus's urgency and stuttered over his response.

"Oh. I-In my house, sir," he stated. He tried to stand up, but his drunken state caused him to trip over the table. "I've hidden her in the basement. Reckoned she wasn't safe in the house."

"Lead the way," Albus commanded.

He stood up and towered over the younger man. Intimidated by Albus's brusque responses, Winfrey stumbled over his robes and scrambled to the door.

Through the enigma of the night, Winfrey led Albus towards the end of the Alley where his house was located. Shadows flickered across the path. Vacant eyes seem to follow their every step. Albus glanced behind him to ensure that no one was following them before turning back to the path. Winfrey seemed to have found his house. Glancing around, the man beckoned Albus behind the backyard gate. When Albus entered, he found a door planted directly on the ground. He assumed that it was the basement.

"Well, here's the basement," Winfrey grunted. When Albus lifted an eyebrow, the man looked appalled. "Oh, no. I'm not going down there. Not with that barmy strutting about," the man shrank under Albus's glare. "I'll be inside if you need me."

"Very well."

Albus lifted the door and descended down the crooked staircase. As he walked, the room started expanding and widening until it reached about the size of a regular room. Wrinkles creased and drooped along the walls while sharp-edged blocks of cement polished the floors. Using his wand, Albus illuminated the room, irresistibly wondering if Winfrey had led him to a trap. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he stopped at the faint sound of a whimper and the soft click of a door. As he approached, he gently rapped on the door. He did not want to startle the girl.

"W-Who g-goes there?" asked a shaking and distrustful voice.

Albus noticed a shadow below the door. He knew that she was looking at him from below the door. He wondered if she could recognize his boots.

"It is I," Albus proclaimed kindly, "Albus Dumbledore. I understand that my presence has been requested."

Before Albus could finish, the door slammed open until it bounced on its hinges. To his surprise, a brown-haired young girl of about fourteen years lurked behind the shadows.

"Pr-pr-fessor," she stuttered. A hint of hesitation crossed over before she tossed herself on the ground beside his feet, clutched his robes, and sobbed hysterically. "P-please help m-me! T-hey t-took me f-from my h-house and im-imprisoned me. They killed my p-parents a-and little J-Jaime. I h-have no no-nowhere e-else to go. P-please help me."

Feeling chains of pity envelop him, Albus brought his illuminated wand closer to her and knelt down. His eyes inspected the girl. He almost didn't recognize her.

She was definitely a student of Hogwarts and one of the missing Muggle-borns. But the extent of her injuries had rendered her unrecognizable.

Bones, not flesh, defined her body. There were several bruises on her head and shoulders. Blood spilled from her neck and arms. Broken bones had torn parts of her flesh. Her frame shook violently, but Albus knew that it wasn't because of the tears. The girl must have suffered from prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. But what nauseated Albus was the letters carved in her blood onto her forehead spelling "Filth," and the fact that her wand arm was completely missing.

"Miss Weatherborn," he acknowledged his student with a heavy heart. He tried to mitigate her clutch on his robes, but she ignored him. "What a terrible ordeal you have been through."

But words and gestures were lost on her. She was not responding to him in any manner.

For the first time in his life, Albus felt helpless. As he looked around the cramped room for answers, a creak at the door had caught his attention. Winfrey had returned with a small vial clutched in his hand. When he caught Albus's eye, he raised an eyebrow in a cocky manner.

"Reckoned you needed some help," he remarked, handing Albus the Calming Draught before stepping back into the shadows.

Albus nodded his gratitude.

He turned to sooth the young girl. Finally, she settled, her sobs mitigating to sniffs. She shuffled to her knees, her eyes vacant as she looked down at her missing arm.

"Miss Weatherborn," Albus began gently, wary of startling the girl. "I understand that you are in pain and shock. With your permission, I will escort you to Madam Pomfrey. She will tend to your injuries, and you will remain safe at Hogwarts until further notice. However," Albus sighed wearily. A part of him wanted to save her the pain from retelling her story, but the other needed answers. "You must tell me what has happened to you and your family–"

"My family is dead," she whispered bluntly. Her eyes were unfocused, but Albus didn't interject. He allowed the silence to prompt her into speaking. "We were having breakfast in the kitchen when the Aurors came in. But they weren't there for a good chat. They came to arrest my parents. Said that they were caught fraternizing with the Dark Lord."

Albus interrupted. "They referred to him as the Dark Lord?"

This was strange. Most Aurors referred to Voldemort by his name or as You-Know-Who.

"Yes," Weatherborn confirmed passively. "My parents had a fit, though. Said that they had never been in contact with anyone from the other side. The Aurors showed them a letter that proved it. But it wasn't even the right handwriting. The Aurors had none of it and arrested my parents. Then, they looked at me and my little brother, Jaime, and said that they couldn't possibly leave the children alone in the house. So they took us all."

Albus rubbed his eyes wearily behind his spectacles. "I imagine that that it was not Askaban which you were escorted to?"

The girl shook her head.

"I don't know where we were taken," she breathed hoarsely. "All I remember is waking up alone in my cell. I tried to call out for my parents and my brother, but no one answered. After a few nights, masked men appeared outside my cell and said that they wanted to talk to me. They put me in a room with my parents and my brother. They wanted me to hurt my family with my magic, but I couldn't. They taught me how to use the Cruciatus Curse using my parents as an example," suddenly, she started to cry, "I tried to make them stop, but they only laughed. Then, they moved onto the Killing Curse."

But Darcey Weatherborn couldn't finish. Even with the Calming Draught, her emotions reigned free.

She was inconsolable.

With a heavy heart, Albus bowed his head when he met Winfrey's eyes. The man was standing against the wall with his arms crossed, his gaze harsh and unrelenting. But underneath his callous exterior, Albus detected a slight hint of pity and sympathy for the young girl.

With a weary sigh, Albus turned to address the girl.

"My dear girl, if there was anything I could do to ease your burden, know that I would," as she shivered, Albus cast a silent warming charm on the girl. "But you must tell me how you escaped. I must know if they are tracking your location."

From his peripheral vision, Albus noticed that Winfrey had stiffened and had lowered his arms in shock.

To Albus's surprise, a faint smile dawned the girl.

"The dark-haired man helped me."

Albus struggled to neutralize his expression.

"Describe him, if you please."

The girl narrowed her eyes. "Dark hair. Green eyes. Wears glasses," Albus's heart soared with joy but stayed silent. "Scar on his forehead and cheek."

But Albus frowned at the last statement. His cheek? Had Harry received another scar in the past ten years? Perhaps he had gotten it from his duels with the Aurors.

But Albus wasn't surprised to know that the girl had not recognized Harry, despite his trademark cursed scar. She was fairly young and had probably never heard of Harry Potter. In the past ten years, Harry's name was either forgotten or regarded with disdain. Hardly anyone mentioned Harry's traits, actions, or physical characteristics. In fact, ever since his betrayal, the Wizarding World had longed for the day when Harry Potter's name would be forgotten.

"And how did you meet him?" asked Albus, curious of the state of his former student.

Could this girl prove that Harry Potter was not the killer that everyone believed he was? The girl tried to wipe her tears and snot with her sleeve, but Winfrey stood and passed her a handkerchief. Resuming his position, he waited for her to continue.

And she did.

"He came to my cell," she said blankly, though her demeanor had brightened. "He asked me why the Death Eaters were torturing me. I told him I was Muggle-born. I thought he would hurt me too, but he didn't. Instead, he gave me a Calming Draught and bandaged up my arm."

Here, she lifted up her arm. Albus was surprised by Harry's work. There was no blood drenching the bandages, which indicated that he must have patched the skin on the wound. But that spell was very advanced and required a great deal of concentration.

"But even when he healed my wounds," she continued, "the Death Eaters would hurt me more. And I think they figured out that he was helping me. They started to hurt him, too. He tried to hide it behind his cloak, but I knew he was hurting. When he didn't visit for an entire week, I thought they killed him," then, she snapped open her eyes and, for the first time that night, she smiled. "But he came back and asked me if I wanted to escape. I couldn't live there anymore. So he gave me a Cloak and told me not to take it off. He led me to a fireplace and told me to ask for Dumbledore when I arrive. And I did."

Here, she smiled bashfully. Albus returned the smile, his eyes twinkling madly.

It seems like Harry had never changed.

"Did he happen to mention his name?" Albus inquired, his hand stroking his beard thoughtfully.

The girl shook her head.

"I never asked," she responded timidly, wondering if her Headmaster would berate her for not asking.

Albus, reading her thoughts, smiled merrily at her. Although the name was important, there was no doubt in his mind which individual had performed these heroic acts. None of the other Death Eaters had the heart to sympathize with a victim – much less a Muggle-born – nor would they ever have the audacity to betray their master.

With the help of Winfrey, Albus escorted the injured girl to Hogwarts. He nearly had given Madam Pomfrey a heart failure when he had awakened her. The flustered Healer had nearly lost her composure at the sight of her injured student. But the girl didn't need a panicked Healer.

Inhaling deeply, Madam Pomfrey schooled her features and handed the girl a Dreamless Potion as she tended to her injuries.

This was going to be a long night.

Albus simply watched as Madam Pomfrey struggled to remain composed. It was painful to believe that a fellow human being would hurt a child so severely at the tender age of fourteen. Not only had they broken the girl physically, but they had also shattered her emotional state by murdering her parents in front of her simply because she was Muggle-born.

Albus wondered whether the girl would ever recover.

But as he glanced down at her sleeping state, he recalled the subject that brightened her mood. Despite her terrible ordeal, she had found happiness in her savior.

Harry.

Albus wondered how the young man was fairing.

The girl had mentioned that he was injured while he had tried to help her. But why had they hurt him? Did Harry not seal his faith with Voldemort? Did that fact not grant him protection from the Death Eaters, or did they still rule over him? But what puzzled Albus the most was why Harry had even helped the girl at all. Did he not prove to the world that he could claim innocent lives, from men, to women, to children? Why had he chosen to help this girl? Or did he also help other prisoners?

Albus's eyes widened as he looked at the girl's missing arm. He remembered her telling him that Harry had bandaged her arm. Albus remembered how startled he had been to discover how meticulously Harry had done it. The skin on the arm had been restored. And there was virtually no blood staining the bandages. But where had Harry learned of such an advanced spell, a spell that only the best Healers could cast?

Albus knew that Hogwarts did not teach of such a spell. And Voldemort, too, did not care for healing spells; he preferred for the injured to die of their injuries rather than heal them.

Was it possible? Had Harry taught himself?

Albus knew how talented and determined the young man had been, when he tried to teach himself a spell that he thought was useful. After all, casting the Patronus Charm at tender age of thirteen was no easy task. He did not soak up knowledge like his best friend Hermione. He simply took what was practical and dismissed the rest.

But if Harry had found convenience in this spell, then he was definitely helping the prisoners escape. But if so, why had no other prisoner beside this girl spoken up? Or had they, and the Ministry had caught them?

And why did it seem like Harry had developed two personalities, the killer and the savior? If he was truly helping the prisoners, why would he turn his back and kill innocents? Why was he betraying Voldemort but following his orders as well? Which side had he chosen? Or had he not chosen one at all?

Today, he had learned that the Ministry, or the Auror Office mainly, had been compromised.

There were Death Eaters disguised as Aurors and vice-versa. The fact that the Ministry had never bothered reducing the amount of children that disappeared in Shreveport Alley made sense now. Why would they speak up when they were the ones committing the crimes? Albus realized that he better warn Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom over the state of the Auror Office since they were both working there. He also needed to arrange a meeting with the Order of the Phoenix and perhaps even arrange a meeting with his former student.

'Indeed,' he thought with his eyes twinkling merrily. 'Harry Potter has returned.'

* * *

A/N: R&R


	4. Chapter 4: Two Faces

With an impatient flick of his cloak, Ron Weasley stomped to his office.

He was beyond annoyed.

The Aurors had fire-called him at three in the morning for what they claimed was an "emergency." And since Ron was known as a skilled Auror, his presence was required. But Ron didn't care. The Aurors were known to exaggerate the smallest cases. He honestly doubted that this "emergency" was more important than his sleep.

Running an hand through his flaming red hair, he marched into the office of the Head Auror, Gawain Robards. He slammed the door open and grimaced at the man.

"This better be important," Ron demanded. He didn't care that he looked unpresentable with his disheveled hair and squinted eyes. He just wanted to finish and go back to sleep.

"Ah, Mr. Weasley," Robards nodded. He resumed shuffling through his parchments until he found what he wanted. Standing up, he walked past his desk, parchment in his hand, "You remember our little fiasco in Hepzibah Smith's house, don't you? I dispatched three Aurors to the home after the neighbors complained that they heard blasts and discussion inside what was a fairly desolate home."

He lifted his head and met Ron's eyes with a pointed look.

"Yeah, I remember, you sent them to their deaths," Ron stated irritably, his sleep deprived state shortening his temper, "Sir." He added.

He ignored the glare from his boss.

But Robards did not tolerate disrespect.

"What I did was simply the best of two evils," he affirmed curtly, "You must understand my position. I couldn't simply ignore any suspicious behavior, especially in such a small village. People in small villages tend to know each other and can easily spot when something is out of ordinary. I had to respond," but Robards sighed wearily, "But that is beside the matter. I did not call you in here tonight to defend my position."

But Ron narrowed his eyes. He wondered why the Head Auror looked so agitated. The usually composed Head Auror looked fairly disheveled. Setting the parchment down, Robards turned towards the door and beckoned Ron to accompany him.

The two walked silently through desolate corridors, their footsteps echoing across the Ministry. Weary eyes peered at them from behind portraits. Torches caused shadows to dance across their robes. The Ministry was fairly empty. The only people that lingered, in Ron's opinion, were the people that either needed to find mates or return to their parents where they would actually have a life.

No sane person would work at this time of an hour.

It was only when they entered the lift did Ron realize that Robards was leading him to the Courtrooms.

Tucking his hands in pocket, he asked casually. "What's this about, then? Why are we going to the Courtrooms?"

Robards waved his hand.

"Not the Courtrooms. No. We're going to the Ministry Detention Area," he resumed shuffling through his parchments, "You remember the three Aurors I sent to the home?" Ron nodded, "Stephen Carter, Harper Narsfish, Bimini Bane. Of course, as an Auror yourself, you should know that every Auror keeps a Vivald stone in their pockets to alert their peers if they are dead or not. That way, the lives of the other Aurors can be spared if the battle is too difficult. Well, when I checked their conditions, I was perhaps misinformed that all three Aurors were dead. The Vivald stone had shone green, which indicates death for all three Aurors. But I never believed that the stone could be the subject of deception. Not until Harper Narsfish returned today–relatively unharmed–with only a few bruises and broken bones."

Ron jerked his head up.

"That can't be possible," Ron whispered. They stopped before they entered the Detention Area. Ron turned to lean against a Gargoyle.

"No! It's a trick!" Ron exclaimed. "We found their bodies, remember? We gave them an hour before we went in. We even told their families! They buried them right near their homes. No. I don't believe it," Ron stated firmly, "Not to be rude or anything, but did you even check the authenticity of this claim? What if they're a Death Eater in disguise?"

Robards looked irritated by the outburst.

"I don't think it's necessary to elaborate on how I came to this conclusion. To exercise caution is basic Auror protocol. I certainly do not need you, Mr. Weasley, to question my place in this case," Ron glared, "And if you have any more doubts about this claim, let me enlighten you."

Robards held open the door leading into the prison and regarded Ron with a mutual glare. Ron stepped into the corridor, Robards trailing ahead of him. As soon as they entered, however, several prisoners startled. With feverish cries, they started to clutch the bars, begging the men to release them.

The prisons did not only consist of only men. There were several women and children as well.

Since Harry Potter's disappearance, a sense of paranoia had filled the Ministry. They started chucking anyone who breathed in prison without evidence. They justified this fact by claiming that they were saving the majority by crippling the minority.

No one was allowed to question the Ministry.

Unable to meet the eyes of the prisoners, Ron kept his gaze forward. He didn't agree at all with the Ministry. He didn't know how many of these people were real criminals or how many were innocent. They were only suspects for now until they appeared before the Courts.

Robards brought him to the end of the hall. Ron could feel several wards were placed around this particular cell. The magic hummed and vibrated. Ron recognized it as the type of magic that was placed around the cells of Death Eaters.

"When Harper Narsfish returned," Robards began, "she had company. She claimed that she had identified the source of the blasts within the home of Hepizbah Smith. Mr. Weasley," Robards sighed, shifting his gaze to the man in the cell, "You are looking at Rodolphus Lestrange, Bellatrix Black's husband. You remember him, don't you? He escaped Askaban shortly before Harry Potter's disappearance."

"Only a fool would forget my name," interjected the man lying on the floor.

To Ron's irritation, the man sounded amused. He peeked open an eye to look at the reactions of the Aurors. The fact that the man did not appear intimidated or resentful to be placed in prison unnerved Ron. He had a bad feeling that the man had intentionally imprisoned himself.

Ron struggled to control his tone.

"Only a fool would land themselves in prison twice," he shook his head, "Lost your touch, have you? What happened? The Master not offering up his blessings?"

But Lestange regarded him with a bored look.

"Your blatant efforts to persuade me is pitiful," with a mad cackle, the man sat up and smirked, "But look what we have here, gentlemen. A slight shift in positions. Here I am. A genteel who wishes nothing more than to cleanse himself from the ghastly sins that he has committed over the years, and the supposed light side accusing him of deceit. Surely every man is worthy of redemption."

"Maybe a man," Ron snapped. He didn't want to play around. "Not to someone who condones the killing and torturing of both wizards and Muggles alike. You're hardly a man," he spat, stepping forward with a rash desire to rip the man apart. But Robards held him back, "You're a monster."

But the man's sinister smile widened. "Come, now. Do you really believe that?"

Lestrange tossed his head back and cackled. He then stood up and stepped dangerously close to the bars of the cell. Ron instinctively stepped back and drew his wand from his pocket.

"I know who _you_ are," he whispered. "Ron Weasley, youngest son of blood-traitors," Ron stiffened. "An Auror now, I see. An excellent one, I presume. Quite skilled in the field. How does it feel to have your name finally recognized now that you aren't cowering behind the shadow of the famous Harry Potter?"

In swift motion, Ron pointed his wand at the man's head. He was breathing heavily, and he was slowly losing composure as Lestrange addressed his worst fears.

He didn't how the man knew of his past insecurities. He had never told anyone about them. None except Hermione. But the man was using them against him.

He had spent most of his time brooding and resenting Harry for his fame, his wealth, and even personality. The times that he had wasted wallowing in his own sorrows could have been used, perhaps, to cherish those fleeting moments with his friend. Perhaps even know Harry better. Although they had been friends for five years, both Ron and Hermione had many questions about Harry. In Hogwarts, they had spent most of their time together worried about studying, having a laugh or two, or on an adventure. They hardly had time for a real discussion.

"Ah," Lestrange's eyes flashed. He looked at the wand with amusement, "But perhaps we are delving into private matters. Rest assured, Mr. Weasley, that your secret is safe with me."

Ron scoffed.

"As if I'd believe that."

Lestrange waved his hand and turned his back on the men.

"I am a repented man," he muttered, pacing frantically. "I did not come here tonight to boast. Rather, I stand before you eager to receive punishment for my past actions."

Abruptly, his mood shifted. His deranged laughter echoed across the prisons, which caused the pleas of the prisoners to halt.

"But no matter my intentions," he continued, "the so-called light will continue to accuse me of depravity. You claim to be fighting for the good. But are you really? Tell me, Mr. Weasley, how many lives have been sacrificed on the basis of the greater good?"

"With or without your Master's involvement?" Ron snapped. He refused to be swayed by this demented man.

Lestrange merely chortled.

"Avoiding the question, I see," he tutted, "Not a very bright lot, you Aurors are. But let me indulge you in the fact of the matter then, shall I? Whatever man contributes to life, whether moral or immoral, contributes immensely to the growth of mankind. Take the subject of killing as an example. If murderers didn't exist, would there ever be someone to save? Or perhaps let's consider the subject of greed. If men didn't insist on clinging to their wealth, would charity to the disadvantaged ever exist? Imagine a world where crime or, what you call, immorality didn't exist. Then man, too, would cease to exist. We are the only species in the world that are defined by our ability to distinguish morality. Immorality is countered only by morality and vice-versa. If one of them didn't exist, the other would cease to exist as well. This is what complicates humans. Without this balance, we would cease to be humans.

"As you have probably intuited," he continued, "the frail titles that you justify your actions with is flawed. There is no saint or corrupter. There is no right or wrong. There is no good or bad. Whatever man does is simply good. Whatever man does, whether moral or immoral, benefits all of mankind because without evil, goodness would cease to exist," he lowered his voice to a whisper, "Do you understand now, Ron Weasley? We are all born capable of committing the best of deeds as well as the most wicked of acts. But whatever we choose simply cements the balance between good and evil. Imagine this . . . If Lord Voldemort didn't exist, then Harry Potter, too, would cease to exist."

Lestrange guffawed.

But Ron turned to the Head Auror. He tilted his head towards the cell, silently begging the man if he could start interrogating with his fists. But Robards shook his head.

"What are you saying?" Ron asked slowly, "That Harry still exists to counteract Voldemort?" He didn't understand. Did Harry join Voldemort or not?

Lestrange locked eyes with Ron.

"Harry Potter is dead."

Ron flinched.

"What?" he breathed in disbelief.

At Ron's stricken expression, Lestrange beamed. "How unfortunate it is how quick his spirit weakened. I must admit, he was a rather challenging shell to crack. Loyalty and determination was all that kept him alive in desperate times," Ron stiffened, "Days passed excruciatingly slow as time and time again, he lay bleeding and trembling after prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. Starving and bitter in his cell, he began to feel abandoned. There was no one there to save him. Not even the 'greatest wizard of all time.'

"But the Dark Lord was merciful," he continued, "he sensed resentment and betrayal in the boy and offered him protection under his care. Despite his gaunt appearance, the boy possessed exceptional strength and talent. How unfortunate it is that his blood is tainted by that of his filthy Mudblood mother. A fine pure-blood he could have been. Swift, cunning, resourceful. Traits befitting a Death Eater. But his rebellious nature unsettled the Dark Lord. Never has anyone been so gallant as to challenge the Dark Lord."

But Ron stood there, stunned.

Was it true? While the Wizarding World had denounced his name, Harry had laid there suffering under Lord Voldemort's "care" for ten years. Ron irresistibly recalled all of the blissful times he had spent with his family, his wife and his children. They had only mourned for Harry for about a year before they had abandoned all hope. They resumed their lives in blissful ignorance while Harry had endured hell from the Death Eaters.

An inexplicable feeling of guilt and self-loathing crossed Ron. Harry had never hesitated nor did had he ever accepted defeat when a loved one was in danger. He would always go against all odds to rescue a loved one, even if he had to sacrifice his own life to accomplish it. But the rare times when Harry, himself, needed saving, there was no there for him. Perhaps that reason alone had fueled his bitterness towards his friends.

Ron blinked away the sting of vexation that appeared in his eyes. He would not let the Death Eater get the better of him. After all, there was a slim chance that Lestrange was lying.

Lestrange smirked.

"Perhaps you believe I am concealing the truth, which you might be correct in assuming," Ron clenched his fists, frustrated, "But the Dark Lord does not shy from the truth. The Boy-Who-Lived–the friend, the savior–is no more. Harry Potter, as you know him, is dead. What remains is simply the ashes of his former self."

Lestrange's deranged laughter echoed across the dungeons.

Despite his reckless desire to hurt the man, Ron restrained himself. Lestrange, after all, had been truthful since the information that he was giving was not as pivotal as they expected. Regardless if he had concealed the truth or revealed it, they could not change what happened. They could not re-write history. Yet again, Harry had suffered and his bitterness had led him to contentious paths. After all, ten years with Lord Voldemort was enough to break anyone's spirit. They couldn't change what happened.

The Aurors had allowed Lestrange to ramble and ramble with the hope that he would slip some vital information. But Lestrange was clever. He simply stated the facts without delving into too many details. He had not told them where exactly Harry was, or where the prisons were located, or how Voldemort had even caught Harry in the first place. Rather, he was tactful and meticulous in what he revealed."

Ron clutched the bars of the cell desperately.

"Harry would never turn his back on us, no matter what happens to him. He's been through hard times before, but he's never betrayed us," he said, as if convincing himself of Harry's loyalty, "How exactly did you convince him?" He hissed.

He was done testing the waters, which is what he was taught to do as an Auror. To approach the suspect attentively. To include subtle hints or key words that fueled their emotions. To ask vague or general questions without including specific details. But ironically, that was exactly what Lestrange was doing and Ron was ignoring.

Robards, who had been silently watching the exchange, gripped Ron's fore-arm.

"Ron–" he warned.

Ron jerked his arm roughly and continued glaring at the smug man.

"Where is he?" he bellowed, his frustration growing.

The man hummed, looking at the ceiling with detached interest. Ron slammed the bars with his fists. Deep inside, he knew that Lestrange would not betray his master. What killed him was the fact that Lestrange was expressing more loyalty to Lord Voldemort than Ron had ever shown to Harry.

Lestrange then sat up and studied Ron in interest.

"Why is it that you show loyalty towards a changed man?" Ron looked bewildered, "Why do you mourn for a soul that has forgotten you, that has possibly abandoned you? A soul that would not hesitate to send you and your family writhing to their deaths?" Ron clenched the bars. "Go. Return to your families. Cherish those moments that you have left with them. For when the Dark Lord returns, he will not hesitate to eliminate every man, woman, or child who stands in his way," he smirked, "And no one will be there to challenge him. Not even the famous Harry Potter."

When Ron had floo-ed back home, he did not go back to sleep. Instead, he simply drew the curtains back from the windows and stood there, staring blankly at the outdoors. The sun peeked out from above the horizon, eliciting a soft glow of light into the hushed cabin. He knew that Hermione would be waking up in half an hour to check on Hugo as well as prepare the breakfast.

But Ron could not convince himself to greet her.

Truth be told, he felt like an utter failure at the moment.

It was obvious that Harry would suffer greatly by Voldemort. After all, he had outright defied him over five times. That reason alone had fueled the search to find him. But after the third year of Harry's disappearance, starting somewhere around Ron's first year in Auror training, the rumors of the Aurors had started.

They had stated that they had found an individual that looked remarkably like Harry that worked for Lord Voldemort. These news appeared in the Daily Prophet. But most people had dismissed these claims as rumors.

But overtime, these rumors had strengthened. Explicit descriptions of this individual had began to shed light on these rumors. Influenced by these rumors, Ron and the others had discontinued the search after realizing that the effort was fruitless. Not to mention, Harry's disappearance had deeply affected their emotional states. The fact that Harry was working for Voldemort had perhaps convinced them that Harry had not suffered at all. They had assumed that he had been granted protection by his so-called Master. They had resumed their own lives.

How foolish they had been.

Ron blinked back the sting in his eyes.

He propped open the window, desperate for a change in air. If only they had continued their search, perhaps Harry would remain loyal to the light. How severe had his suffering been to completely change his mind?

But that didn't make sense. In a way, Harry had always suffered. He had never known what a normal life was. He had never felt the security and affection of parents. He never slept a night without Voldemort's thoughts and emotions filling his head.

Ron had known Harry for five years, and all five years, he had to meet Harry in the hospital wing for some reckless thing that his friend had done. He was always close to death. He constantly had to deal with his loved ones dying, be it his godfather, his parents, or even his friends. Though, at rare times, he revealed his resentment, he was never vindictive or bitter. Even after Sirius Black's death, Harry simply distanced himself rather than express a desire to hurt others.

With a heavy heart, Ron realized that it wasn't worth crying over spilled milk. As Lestrange had stated ever-so sagaciously, it was fruitless to mourn over the state of his friend. Despite the reason behind his actions, Harry, with a sane mind, had chosen his path. He had chosen Voldemort. Every person was responsible for their choices and actions in life. And Harry wasn't any different.

Perhaps Ron could go on and make excuses for his former friend, but to what extent? Until Harry outright pointed a wand at him and sent him to his death?

Not a chance.

"Ron?"

Ron jolted and turned to point his wand at the owner of the voice. But he sighed in relief at the sight of Hermione. A night robe was drawn over her dressing gown and her bushy brown hair was tied in a disheveled bun as she peered at him with bemusement.

"Hermione," he breathed, a weak smile crossing his features, "Are you trying to give me a heart failure?"

"Sorry," she whispered. She gave him a studious look before she moved towards the sofa, "I couldn't sleep. I heard Robard fire-call you, and I was worried. I thought something bad had happened at the Office."

Ron shook his head. He sighed, tossed himself on the sofa beside her, and placed an arm behind his head.

"They called me in for an interrogation," he admitted, not remotely concerned about giving away information.

The Aurors had warned him that they were not permitted to discuss any cases with strangers or loved ones. But Ron always ignored their warnings in respect to Hermione.

"When do they not?" she smiled fondly.

Despite his dreary mood, Ron grinned. He was getting quite the reputation with his interrogation skills. But his smile faded as he recalled the subject of the interrogation.

"Actually, this time is different," he said, fidgeting slightly. He moved to place his elbows on his knees, "You remember the Death Eaters that escaped Askaban, right? At the end of our Fifth Year?"

Hermione frowned.

"Yes . . .?" she said slowly.

"Well, one of them was caught tonight."

Hermione frowned.

The four Death Eaters that had escaped Askaban were among the highest rank of Death Eaters. They were known for their strength and intelligence. The fact that one of them had landed themselves back in prison was a startling revelation.

"Which one?" she inquired.

"Rodolphous Lestrange."

Ron then proceeded to inform her of all that had happened throughout the night. He told her about the appearance of Harper Narsfish, the capture of Rodolphous Lestrange, and the information provided about their former friend. By the time he was finished, Hermione's eyes glistened with tears.

"But Harry . . ." she choked with emotions, "Harry would never . . ."

"I know," Ron said quietly.

"How could he possibly think we've abandoned him?" Hermione cried indignantly, "We've searched and searched for him. But there was no signs, no hints," she paused to collect her breath, "He's given access to the outside, hasn't he? And he knows where the Burrow is. Why hasn't he found us there? We could help him!"

But Ron hesitated in replying. He knew his response would break her heart.

"Hermione," he said quietly, looking down at his own hands, "I don't think he wants anything to do with us."

As he expected, Hermione trembled with emotion. Feeling guilty, he drew her against his chest. She had never given up hope in Harry. Before, Ron had misinterpreted her unwavering loyalty to Harry as something that bordered on romantic feelings.

He had been startled when she had accepted his proposal. The feeling that she had accepted his proposal simply because he was replacing Harry had nagged him for months afterwards. But finally, she had finally confronted him and banished these irrational fears.

Her friendship with Harry was, as it was, friendship. The fact that their relationship was perhaps misinterpreted was because of Harry himself. Harry, with his reckless nature and his rather unfortunate circumstances, indirectly demanded attention perhaps more than others. He needed someone to keep him in place. To critique him. To stand beside him. To comfort him. Someone to fill in the roles that he lacked in life. And Hermione had been that person.

She would always be loyal to him.

* * *

Delicately, with years of practice aiding him, Albus landed inside in the dreary dungeons and looked around.

After Darcey Weatherborn had awakened, her friends and fellow classmates had greeted her affectionately with rather expensive gifts from their parents and themselves in an effort to cheer up. Albus, too, had furtively Apparated to Honeydukes to buy her an entire box of sweets. He had left it beside her feet without a name. To his amusement, as a Ravenclaw, she had deduced that the present was from him and had thanked him.

To his surprise, she had recovered quickly and had even started laughing along with her friends after a week in the hospital wing. Albus had approached her on wary feet and asked her if she would offer her memory of how she had met Harry.

Although he had trusted her story, she was only human. She could miss or ignore, what seemed like irrelevant, details. Hesitation had crossed her. But when she recalled the gift that he had given her, she agreed.

Albus stood in a rather dark dungeon trying to deduce where exactly the place was. He had never seen the inside of this building before. In fact, he didn't even know what this building even was. He couldn't travel outside the dungeons to check where he was. After all, he was limited only by Darcey's memories.

There was no light at all in the dungeon. There were no windows. He looked around and found dozens of cells lined up against two sides of the wall.

The cells were not connected but spread out evenly. Spider webs crawled along the ceilings. Mold and hanging moss aligned the walls. The prisoners clawed on the bars and walls in an attempt to escape. Faint screams and pleas reached Albus's ears, but he could not identify the source because of how spread out the cells were. His heart clenched as he wondered how many of these prisoners were still alive today.

But there was a hoarse breath coming from behind him. As he glanced behind him, a sinking feeling crossed him. He identified the source. Several Dementors were lingering beside the cells of the prisoners. They were feeding off their grief and melancholy. With a heavy heart, Albus bowed his head, closed his eyes, and muttered a prayer to the prisoners.

He opened his eyes when he heard a heart-wrenching sob from one of the cells. This one was different than the others. It was more hysterical. Screams and sobs came from this cell. Hesitating, Albus slowly walked towards the cell and peered in.

What he found tore his heart.

It was Darcey Weatherborn.

Albus forced himself not to look away. Over the years, he had seen much pain and suffering. Had even experienced a taste of it himself. But the sight of a fourteen year old clutching her bleeding arm and screaming at the top of her lungs was enough to make grown men weep. Her cries vibrated across the dungeons as she tried to staunch the blood that was descending fast from her wand arm. It was clear that the Death Eaters had left her there to bleed to death.

Feeling tears of sympathy sting his eyes, Albus looked up when a door creaked open. Soft footsteps echoed across the dungeons.

A hooded individual approached the cell. He was dressed in black robes with a black cloak strapped across his shoulders. He was tall and thin. His movements were hesitant, as if he was unsure if he should approach the girl. He lurked near the cell door for a moment before he finally decided to enter the cell. Albus noticed that he was wandless as he unlocked the cell with a spell. As he entered, a familiar set of green eyes looked up from behind his hood.

It was Harry.

But it was not the Harry that Albus remembered. Albus had forgotten that, as his friends aged, so had Harry. He was taller now, almost as tall as Albus himself. Gone was the scrawny frame that they had always associated with him. He was still thin, but in a relatively healthy way. His posture, too, had changed. He stood with confidence, albeit with a hint of uncertainty as well. However, he was paler than before, his skin a stark contrast against his dark clothing. And contrary to the rumors, his eyes had not changed to red. They were still green. They were still Lily's eyes. But while Lily's eyes had once sparked with spirit, hope, and determination, Harry's eyes were dim.

"Are you all right?" Harry whispered, his voice deeper than Albus remembered.

Suddenly, he shook his head as if berating himself for the question. He warily approached the girl whose sobs renewed as Harry neared her.

"I won't hurt you," he stated gently, lowering his hood.

But Albus blinked in confusion. For a moment, as Harry had revealed himself, he thought he saw James Potter standing there in the flesh. Harry had never realized how eerily he looked like his father. James had almost been the same age as Harry when he died. Thus, their similarities were even more apparent as Harry grew older. But while Harry had inherited his father's appearance, as he endeavored to sooth the girl, Albus smiled at the thought that he had also inherited Lily's gentle heart.

But Harry stood, studying the girl for a second before he started to fumble with something around his neck. To Albus's surprise, Harry had a pouch that hung around his neck that seemed to contain various items. He approached the boy – or the young man – and looked down at the contents of the pouch. He was stunned by the amount of potions, books, and various items that Albus couldn't quite distinguish for Harry quickly tucked the pouch behind his robes. He then knelt on one knee beside the girl.

"Here, drink this," he said, holding out a vial of Calming Draught to the girl.

Through heavy sobs, Darcey appraised his honesty for a moment. Hesitantly, she reached out with her trembling good hand and gulped it down. Her panicked state had ignored caution. A normal person would have questioned whether the vial was poisonous. Finally, her sobs mitigated.

It was clear that she was still in pain.

But Harry thoughtfully tried to distract her from her pain.

"What's your name?" he asked quietly.

Albus watched in admiration as Harry poured Essence of Dittany over her smaller wounds. The girl, too, seemed to relax when she realized that he wasn't going to hurt her.

"Darcey," she whispered.

Harry cleared the dried blood wandlessly and non-verbally. But Albus was startled. Harry had grown quite skilled over the years.

But how had he learned all this? And who had taught him?

Or had he taught himself?

"Well, Darcey," he raised an eyebrow expectedly. Albus noticed that his eyes darkened before he neutralized his expression, "Care to tell me why this happened?" He gestured towards her arm.

Albus had a feeling that he already knew the answer.

She wiped stray tears from her eyes and whispered.

"I'm Muggle-born."

She bit her lip and looked away. Albus remembered her telling him that she had feared that Harry, too, would hurt her. But Harry was distracted. He seemed to brush aside her comment and instead focused on trying to heal her arm. Alarmed, Darcey then looked back at Harry.

"Y-you're not upset?" she stumbled. But her question had successfully drawn his attention back to the girl. He looked startled by the question.

Albus smiled.

Harry frowned. "Of course not," he said, waving his hand, "Why would I be?"

"Well," she bit her lip timidly, hesitant to upset him, "A-aren't you one of them?" But Harry shook his head, a dark expression crossing his features.

"My mother was Muggle-born," he admitted, his tone bitter and his jaw clenched. Albus, however, was surprised by his reaction.

Not only had Harry remained loyal to his parents, but he had also denied the fact that he was one of the Death Eaters. He looked so genuine, too. Albus could hardly believe it. Harry was not a murderer. His voice was too gentle. His actions too kind. Just the pouch he had wrapped around his neck was proof of that. Harry had stored various potions and tools that would help those in need. Ten years and nothing had changed in his former student. He kept his good heart.

But why did he turn his back and kill innocents? His actions didn't make sense. Something was wrong with the boy – no, the man! – kneeling there.

Something was terribly wrong.

"Was?" the girl inquired, sniffing.

Harry gave her with a regretful look.

"They killed my parents," he said with a heavy sigh. Before she could reply, he clutched her shoulder, "You're bleeding quite a bit. I've got to staunch the blood. I won't lie to you, it's going to hurt a bit. D'you think you can sit still for me?" she looked alarmed, but he added hastily, "You don't have to look. Just lower your eyes, alright?"

Hesitantly, she nodded. Then, she buried her face in her arm. Meanwhile, Harry concentrated intensely on the spell. It seemed like Voldemort had not trusted Harry with a wand. All of the spells that Harry had cast had been done wandlessly. This one was no exception.

Albus watched with a sense of pride in his heart as the skin of the arm knitted back together. Darcey elicited a muffled moan of pain, but Harry was not to be distracted. After the spell was finished, Harry cleaned the blood then ripped a part of his robes near his feet. Before Albus's eyes, the young man elongated the strip of cloth until it was lengthy enough to wrap around the girl's arm.

"Alright," he sighed and glanced at the trembling girl, "You can look up now."

Hesitantly, Darcey peered up from behind her good arm. Her features lit up at the sight of her bandaged arm.

"Thank you," she choked in gratitude. Harry, however, observed her from behind his glasses with something like pity in his eyes.

"That's your wand arm, isn't it?" he inquired gently. Uable to keep his gaze, she bowed her head and nodded. But a flicker of anger crossed over his features. He placed a hand on her shoulder and said quietly, "Don't let them get to you."

Before she could reply, he drew his hood over him and left, his cloak billowing behind him. Albus watched his retreating back before the memory ended and he found himself back in his office.

But he could not sit. He paced and paced as he reflected on what he had seen.

Harry had grown beyond all of his imagination. Not only had he changed in appearance, but he had also grown stronger in both magic and character. The Harry that he had known as a boy was still there, but perhaps more mature and more aware of his surroundings. His words were more careful.

But what saddened Albus was the fact, despite the young man's goodness, there was something missing in him. Something in him had died. His lifeless eyes had reflected that. His demeanor had hardened significantly. In fact, throughout the whole memory, Harry had not smiled once despite being in the presence of a child.

Albus also sensed Harry's bitterness and anger towards the Death Eaters. He had openly admitted that he wasn't a Death Eater. But that didn't make sense. The hooded man that the Aurors had seen had been him, right? But the Aurors had also been proven wrong. They had claimed that the hooded man had red eyes, but based on what Albus had seen in the memory, Harry had kept his mother's eyes. Perhaps this was the Ministry's plan to frame Harry for whatever reason. Or perhaps there was someone impersonating as Harry, perhaps through Polyjuice Potion.

Despite these dismal thoughts, however, Albus could not stifle his joy over what had become of his former student. Harry had remained loyal to his parents. How he resembled them! James and Lily would have proud to see their only son all grown-up. Albus, too, had felt a growing sense of pride as he had stood beside Harry in the memory. He had never ceased to amaze Albus. Thus, Albus vowed that he would no longer doubt his former student. No matter what truths he encountered, this memory was proof of Harry's good heart.

* * *

A/N: So, what do you think? Reviews much appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5: Seventh Horcrux

"Good luck, Severus," said Albus Dumbledore to his former student in a grave tone. He then turned to walk back to his desk, his posture stiff and solemn.

In turn, Severus nodded and schooled his features before exiting the Headmaster's office. Swiftly, he passed the corridors in relative silence, down the stairs, and into the outdoors. His mood grim, he drew his Occlumency shield up.

He would always use these moments to collect himself before he entered into the Dark Lord's presence. Though he had been a spy for more than twelve years, that feeling that he would be caught never vanished. After all, the Dark Lord was clever and skilled in Legilimency. Severus always feared that perhaps someday, his lifeless body would be shipped back to Dumbledore.

But there he was again. His emotions reigning free.

'Focus!' berated his inner self.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He nearly snorted at how similar he was being to his former student. Potter had never mastered the art of Occlumency simply because he had allowed his emotions to overcome him. Like his father before him, he was feeble-minded and conceited. Severus had never expected much out of him. Thus, he had not given his best effort to teach the boy.

But Severus's attention shifted back to his task as he Apparated away from Hogwarts. He then landed gracefully on a barren patch of grass. He glanced around for bystanders before proceeding onward. Sensing his presence, the arid trees that concealed the path untwined. As he passed, however, the dry trees resumed their former positions, successfully concealing the path.

Those who did not bear the Dark Mark could not enter past that point. If they did enter, however, their minds would be subject to intense scrutiny that would either drive them insane or force them to return to their previous paths.

But Severus, bearing the Dark Mark, flicked his cloak impatiently as he approached a large, white mansion. He nodded stiffly to the two Death Eaters guarding the entrance and continued inside. As he entered, he was immediately plagued by darkness.

Though there was one or two candles that floated along the corridors, the indoors remained largely dim and dreary. A red carpet blanketed the tiles, the walls were decorated with skulls and bones. Two-way mirrors were plastered against the walls to check the visitors entering the building. Severus also detected faint screams and deranged laughter from the underground dungeons. The entrance to the dungeons was on his left while the Death Eater meeting room was to his right. Ahead, at the end of the corridor, however, was his destination.

The Dark Lord's room.

Inhaling one last time, Severus lifted his Occlumency shield and knocked on the door.

"Enter."

He stepped inside. There, a dark clothed figure sat, his hood casting a shadow over his features. His bony figures rhythmically stroked the head of the snake draped around his shoulders. His throne was slightly elevated over the rest of the room.

Severus stepped forward and bowed before the Dark Lord.

"Master," he greeted.

But the Dark Lord did not answer. Instead, he silently continued to observe Severus with piercing red eyes as he stroked Nagini's head. The snake, in turn, hissed spitefully at Severus which sent chills down his spine. However, Severus did not lift his head to meet the gaze of his master. Instead, he waited for what seemed like an eternity with his head bowed before the Dark Lord decided to speak.

"Rise, Severus," hissed a cold voice from behind his hood. In a graceful fashion, the Dark Lord stood and clasped his fingers together in silent meditation as he descended the two steps of his throne. "Your mission was successful, I presume?"

Severus detected an ominous warning in his tone.

"Yes, Master," Severus affirmed firmly. He stood up with a blank expression on his and met his Master's eyes. He could feel the Dark Lord trying to pierce his Occlumency shield. "I informed them what has become of the boy. The old man suspects nothing."

"You did well, Severus," stated the Dark Lord, a furrow in his brow. His bony figures continued to caress the snake. "You have proven your loyalty time and time again," he paused. "If only the other Death Eaters shared that sentiment."

Severus stiffened.

The Dark Lord seemed pensive. Severus wondered what had prompted his suspicions. But too late, he realized that the Dark Lord was waiting for a reply. His red eyes flashed dangerously at Severus's silence.

Resisting the urge to kick himself, he said carefully.

"What ever do you mean, Master?"

"You are a clever man, Severus," Lord Voldemort said icily. He circled around Severus who remained rooted in the center of the room. "You give yourself far too little credit sometimes," Severus did not respond to the compliments, "But what do you think of these rumors, Severus? Has it not crossed your clever mind of what had become of the boy that had five times defied me? Or why I, Lord Voldemort, heir of Salazar Slytherin, would ever associate myself with the fool by the name of Harry Potter?" He spat the name.

Despite his clear vexation, the Dark Lord was keen and astute. He did not particularly care what Severus's opinion of the matter was. Not unlike Tom Riddle before him, the Dark Lord's words were charming and engaging, but they were never genuine. He simply used words to test for ripples in the water. Severus pondered about this matter for a moment before he responded.

After all, he, too, could be subtle.

"I must admit, it has troubled me," he affirmed slowly, strengthening his Occlumency shield. "But I thought nothing of the matter. After all, you know better than I. I would never doubt your judgement, my Lord."

The Dark Lord smirked.

"How charming, Severus," he hissed, faintly amused. Though the answer seemed to please him nonetheless. "Like me, you have a gift with words. We are very much alike, you and I," he stopped his pacing in front of a window at the corner of the room. "Perhaps that reason alone is why I trust you."

Severus watched blankly as the Dark Lord stood in quiet contemplation. His posture was stiff and tense. He stood with his head bowed, his hood casting a shadow over his snake-like features. Taking advantage of the Dark Lord's solemn demeanor, Severus proceeded to study the room for a hint of what – or who – had occupied his place before he had entered.

Book shelves and cabinets aligned the walls, and a blood red Persian carpet sprawled along the tiled floor. Curtains draped along the windows and candles floated aimlessly. But what caught Severus's attention was the patch of blood splashed across the corner of the cabinet near him.

To Severus, it seemed that someone had been slammed across the cabinet and had even bled there. Whoever had been here before had definitely influenced the pensive demeanor of the Dark Lord. But Severus could only think of one person who could lead the Dark Lord to such frustrations.

Potter.

"There is a traitor amidst our ranks," the Dark Lord whispered, his thoughts echoing across the taciturn room. "Someone has been helping the prisoners escape."

Abruptly, Severus was caught under the piercing red gaze of the Dark Lord. The gaze was so intense that Severus conjured all of his strength not to look away.

"Perhaps you have deduced who that person is judging by your astute notice of the blood on the cabinet."

Severus stiffened.

"Spare me your apologies, Severus," he hissed coldly when Severus had opened his mouth to correct himself. "There is no shame in having a keen eye towards your surroundings. As a Death Eater, I expected no less from you. But that is beside the matter," he waved his hand and gestured Severus towards the door. "Come. Walk with me."

Warily, he accompanied the Dark Lord out of the room and back into the corridor. His mind was racing. Did the Dark Lord know of his true intentions? And what had prompted his discomposure? And more importantly, what exactly happened to Potter? Judging by the blood on the cabinet, the boy was severely injured. What exactly had transpired in the room before Severus had entered?

But as Severus felt the slip in his Occlumency shield, he hastily collected himself. The Dark Lord was leading him into the underground dungeons. He watched as the prisoners shuffled away to the corner of the walls, soaking comfort from the shadows, as the Dark Lord ambled through. From her place around her Master's shoulders, Nagini hissed pitilessly at the prisoners.

Suddenly, however, the Dark Lord halted at the end of the corridor towards a seemingly blank wall. He flicked his wand in a complicated motion before the wall sank beneath the floor. As the dust of the wall cleared, however, Severus discovered that the room was actually a highly concealed and protected cell. But the Dark Lord beckoned Severus closer beside the bars of the room so he could observe its occupants. Warily, Severus treaded closer and his Occlumency shield nearly vanished when he sought the figure lying dormant on the bunk of the bed.

It was Potter.

But the Dark Lord interjected. "Does it trouble you, Severus, to see your former student in such an incapacitated state?"

To Severus's irritation, the Dark Lord's tone was mocking and derisive. He knew that the Dark Lord was watching his reaction closely for any foreign emotions.

"Never," Severus hissed.

Despite his harsh response, Severus observed the figure carefully with detached interest. This was the first time in ten years that he had actually seen Potter. Severus had known that the boy was present in the mansion, but he had never seen him. Potter, however, did not appear asleep; rather, he appeared unconscious.

Severus wondered if he had collapsed from the severe injuries that he had received from the Dark Lord. There was a large purple bruise around his neck. His left eye appeared to have punctured and was actively bleeding. His robes, stained with blood, stuck to his figure. His deathly pale face was contorted with pain. Severus inferred, judging by his experiences with the boy, that Potter must have challenged the Dark Lord which ultimately led to a squabble between him and the Dark Lord.

"As it should," the Dark Lord said icily. He shifted his gaze onto the figure on the bed. "Potter has been responsible for all of the suspicious activity transpiring in the mansion," he paused. "I should have known that what's innate can never be changed."

But Severus's mind was racing. Surely the Dark Lord knew of the boy's fierce loyalty to the light. Why, then, had he kept the boy alive after ten years? The fact that Potter was lying on the bed, exhausted from his injuries, was proof that Potter still rebelled against the Dark Lord. He did not serve the Dark Lord willingly. And even after he had been caught outright betraying the Dark Lord, the Dark Lord had not killed him.

Something was terribly wrong.

"Perhaps you are wondering why I have not killed the boy," the Dark Lord stated nonchalantly. "ten years ago when I ordered his capture. When the Death Eaters brought the boy before me, I received profound disrespect from the so-called Boy-Who-Lived," he hissed. "I pointed my wand at him, ready to cast the Killing Curse that would snuff out the boy's life when the strangest thing happened. I looked into the boy's eyes and found myself standing before me."

Severus furrowed his eyebrows.

"But perhaps you have deduced why this phenomenon occurred," said the Dark Lord, pinning Severus with a pointed look.

But Severus did not trust his voice. He simply shook his head and remained silent.

But the Dark Lord waved his hand.

"Come now, Severus," he said idly. "Has it ever occurred to you why, ten years ago, I was able to lure the boy in after his supposed incapacitated godfather? Or why I was able to possess the boy's body after my duel in the Ministry?" the Dark Lord lowered his voice. "Have you ever wondered why this connection exists between the boy and I and no one else? Perhaps you might ask, what acts have I committed had prompted this connection? After all, before I intruded into the Potter home twenty four years ago, this connection had not existed. What, then, had started this? Why is it that I can transmit my memories to him and to no one else?"

Severus's lips remained sealed and dry. He watched the Dark Lord unlock the cell door and step in. He stood rooted to his place, wondering if he should enter along with the Dark Lord. But he felt as if clawed hands had wrapped around his feet that kept him in place. Alarm bells, too, rang in his head as he watched the Dark Lord approach the dormant figure.

Lily's son.

Vacantly, he watched as the Dark Lord brushed the figure's dark bangs back from his forehead using the tip of his wand.

But the Dark Lord looked lost in thought.

"That mark," he breathed quietly. "That mark had sealed his fate. But I had never thought much of it, never considered its significance. I was desperate, as you know, for my rebirth. To encase my soul into a body. But as I searched for a vessel for my soul, I was perhaps delayed. The boy had hindered my rebirth. But he was foolish to think that he could challenge Lord Voldemort. I thought of Harry Potter as nothing more than a nuisance. A mere product of a Prophecy. Perhaps vengeful for his foolish parents," he hissed, though Potter did not stir. "But as you know, I ignored this mark. I thought of it as nothing more than a symbol of motherly love."

So engrossed in his thoughts, the Dark Lord looked unfazed by Potter's hiss of pain when his fingertips grazed his scar.

"But ten years ago, before I had ordered the capture of the boy," he continued. "I noticed a slight disturbance in my memories. An intruder was observing what I was observing. But this feeling occurred only for a few seconds before it vanished. Soon, this feeling persisted until I found myself looking through the eyes of my intruder. His friends, his teachers, his _godfather_ ," he said, amused. "were all free for me to observe. And as you know, I used his _love_ for his godfather to lure him in for the Prophecy. But I was foolish, Severus. In my obsession to grasp the Prophecy, I never realized the essence of this connection. I never realized its significance. Not until I physically possessed the boy's body and spoke through him."

The Dark Lord halted his rant as Potter continued to groan in agony. But the Dark Lord did not withdraw his hand.

Severus, however, felt as if he had been drenched in ice. There was no doubt that the Dark Lord knew of the significance of the mark, though he had not yet led Severus to that conclusion. But Severus had already known of this truth. He had known it after he had begged Dumbledore to forgive him for his disloyalty. He had known it when he had offered to protect the boy. For Lily's sake. He had known of the boy's fate. He had known what the boy possessed inside of him. He had known that the boy was never meant to have survived the Killing Curse.

But now, the Dark Lord knew.

Irresistibly, Severus wondered if Potter had been blessed or cursed by that fact that the Dark Lord knew of their connection. In a way, he had been blessed by that fact that his life had been spared. But as Severus heard his moans of pain, he wondered if Potter would actually have preferred death as an alternative to his ten years of suffering.

But the Dark Lord interrupted his thoughts.

"This possession . . ." he continued coldly. "It was not unfamiliar. The fact that I could speak through another vessel was not foreign to me. Perhaps you remember the Chamber of Secrets? When I appeared as Tom Riddle, I spoke through a book that contained a piece of my soul that this _fool_ of a boy destroyed," he hissed, pressing his fingers deeper into Potter's scar. "But as I took a hold of the boy in the Ministry, I used his voice. I begged his Headmaster to kill him. I pushed aside his thoughts and his feelings and trounced them. But unlike the diary, I had to _battle_ with this vessel."

As if stung, the Dark Lord withdrew his fingers from Potter's forehead and turned to Severus with, if possible, a grave expression.

"Severus," the Dark Lord whispered. "Has it ever occurred to you that it's possible to _share_ our souls?"

But Severus stood silently, his eyes fixed onto the restless figure on the bed. But the Dark Lord understood his silence.

"Yes, Severus," he affirmed quietly. "Though the truth pains me to admit, I could not kill the boy. Not without killing a piece of myself. I was caught between two evils. To keep this defiant fool alive or eliminate a piece of myself. Though tonight I have strongly considered the latter," he added fiercely, "But I was merciful, Severus. I kept him alive," the Dark Lord smirked, his red eyes gleaming. "but not without consequences. Despite my hatred for him, the boy possessed exceptional strength and talent. With proper training, I found potential in keeping him alive. But herein lies the problem . . ."

The Dark Lord reverted his gaze onto Potter.

"You see, when I took possession of his body, I was banished rather quickly by his so-called _love_ for his friends and his godfather. I could not keep the connection. His interference had broken it. _Love_ had broken it," he paused. "I was not foolish, Severus. I knew he would never be a willing servant," but he smirked. "But alas, I decided to take advantage of this possession. To use him as a tool against the light. But the only way I could accomplish this was by separating him, isolating him from any human interaction with special emphasis towards his friends."

He gestured mockingly to the bed. "You are a Legilimens, Severus. I invite you to look through his memories. I assure you that you will find nothing of love but only of bitterness and resentment."

The dungeons then echoed the Dark Lord's spiteful laughter.

Severus, however, was disturbed.

The Dark Lord had taken advantage of the fact that Potter was one of his Horcruxes. He had possessed him, manipulated him, to become a killer. He had used the boy like a marionette. The boy had never been willing.

In fact, Severus wondered if Potter even knew at all what actions he had committed during his possession. Was he conscious at all of his actions? Did he even know how many people he had killed? If he did know, then the Dark Lord had practically killed him. By forcing him to abandon his moral principles, the Dark Lord had effectively killed his spirit.

"But perhaps you are curious why I have confided to you and to no one else," the Dark Lord interjected nonchalantly. "If you think that perhaps I trust you more than the rest, then you are severely mistaken. I have not forgotten the disloyalty I experienced when I was left to search for a vessel with that fool Pettigrew. You will only act as my messenger and share the information I have given you with the rest of the Death Eaters. Inform them that Harry Potter will no longer hide in the shadows."

Severus nearly flinched when the Dark Lord flicked his wand curtly. Suddenly, three small house elves appeared trembling with fear at the sight of their master.

"What ails you, Master?" squeaked the smaller one.

"Potter is injured," said the Dark Lord, gesturing towards the bed. "You are to nurse him back to health. No marks shall be left on his skin. No blood shall drip from his wounds. I expect it to be done in less than a minute," an eerie smirk crossed his lips. "Prepare him for battle."

The house elves immediately sprang into action. Potter, however, remained blissfully unaware of his surroundings. Such was the extent of his injuries. Though Severus had disdained him for so long, he did feel a faint rush of pity for the young man.

After all, Severus inferred that this was simply a regular day for Potter and the Dark Lord. If, after ten years, Potter did not learn how to tame his tongue, then the Dark Lord almost always had a reason to punish him.

Though composed on the surface, Severus blanched when the Dark Lord turned to him.

"Severus," said the Dark Lord. "You are to alert the Death Eaters that a battle is looming. They should be prepared for battle as soon as we receive the signal."

But Severus's mind raced. What signal and where were they planning to attack? But the Dark Lord did not offer any further information. He instead approached Potter's now healed figure.

"This will be the ultimate test for loyalty."

He watched as the Dark Lord pointed his wand at Potter's head. Severus, however, did not hear the spell. It had been cast nonverbally. A flash of light emerged from his wand. Suddenly, Potter screamed and clasped his forehead. His cries then subsided after a moment. The Dark Lord simply watched with a cynical smile as the young man's eyelashes fluttered open. Severus could not quite catch his expression from his position outside of the cell. Instead, he watched dreadfully as Potter sat up and continued to clutch his forehead in agony.

"Rise, Harry," the Dark Lord whispered.

The Dark Lord stood with his hand outstretched towards the groggy young man. In his hand, however, was a wand with its hinge pointing towards Potter, as if inviting the younger man to take the wand. But the fact that the Dark Lord trusted Potter with a wand startled Severus. A second ago, they had been enemies. But as Potter rose from the bed, removed his hand from his forehead, and looked up, they instantly became allies.

Gone were Lily's bright green eyes. What remained was simply the blood red eyes of Lord Voldemort.

And Severus had only one thought.

He had to warn Dumbledore.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore steadied himself as he landed at his destination. As he landed at the cliff of a large island, he breathed in the salty smell of the ocean and tried to peer past the fog, but he could hardly see anything at this point. The sun mercilessly vanished behind the fog while the fierce winds ruffled his robes. He watched as the island slowly drenched in darkness before he started to venture across the island.

He didn't know what exactly he was looking for. All he knew was that there was a Horcrux here.

Rough and blunt edges defined the cliffs while the waves battled against the boulders, splashing droplets of water into the air. The island was very dark and dreary, a fitting place to fashion a Horcrux. In the island, a surreal feeling crossed him as he descended the cliffs and hopped across overturned branches. He felt as if he was dreaming.

Such was the atmosphere of the island.

Sloping trees leaned awkwardly across the water. The barren grass crunched under his feet as he approached a large arch within one of the hills. An enigmatic vibration came from this cliff. There was no doubt that this hill contained magic.

Albus drew his wand and made to approach the cliff when root vines suddenly wrapped themselves around his feet, preventing him from entry.

"Clever, Tom," he muttered quietly.

He then flicked his wand curtly and transformed the vines into water which drenched the sand beneath his feet. Irresistibly, he wondered how many traps his former student had left. He reminded himself to remain vigilant as he approached the large hill. Illuminating his wand, he traced the coarse texture of the cave looking for some sign of an entrance.

He noticed that some edges of the hill sloped inwards, which indicated that entry was possible. Stepping back, he summoned a stray rock from the ground and used his wand to sharpen the edge. He then used the rock to cut a large gash across his left hand. With his hand bleeding, he traced the edges of the hill. Sure enough, the hill cleaved asunder to reveal untarnished darkness within.

With his breath flowing out in front of him, Albus entered the cave. Poised and collected on the surface, he still felt a bit apprehensive about the area. Dark magic hummed along the coarse surface of the cave. As experienced as he was in magic, he couldn't quite predict a trap until he fell in one.

Tom Riddle, after all, had been quite gifted with intelligence.

But Albus walked until he detected a slight disturbance. It sounded like droplets of water were descending from above the cave. He identified the source when he reached a wide clearing. The rest of the path was circled around a murky lake while roots and vines dangled down from above.

In the center of the lake, however, was an human hand perched upright on top of a boulder. Discreetly, Albus approached the boulder and grimaced slightly when he peered down into the lake.

Human corpses, their white eyes wide with horror, drifted aimlessly along the surface of the lake. Men, women, and children, all victims of the war, floated along, though Albus knew that it was an illusion. To him, however, they were a stark reminder of all of the crimes that Tom Riddle had committed.

Perhaps someday, they would hold him accountable for his actions. Irresistibly, Albus wondered how Tom had ever managed to hide his Horcrux here knowing that he feared the dead.

But Albus refocused his attention on his task at hand. Inhaling deeply, he approached the boulder in the center and looked down at the hand curiously. A ring was perched on the middle finger. The ring gleamed seductively, as if inviting others to claim it. But Albus grew suspicious. The task seemed too simple. Too easy.

To take the ring without consequences was not something that Tom Riddle would permit.

Indeed, as Albus reached up to take the ring, a faint rustle disturbed him. He could also hear footsteps and quiet weeping and moaning. But as he looked around to identify the source, he froze when he caught sight of the figure crouched near the shadowed corners of the wall, its back facing Albus.

It was a young girl.

Slowly, Albus drew his wand from his pocket, instinctively knowing that this was a trap. The girl was shaking and weeping quietly. She was also muttering profusely, but he couldn't hear over the sound of droplets dripping into the lake. Warily, he approached her, prepared to fire any curse if necessary. But he froze when he finally heard her muttering.

"Why, Albus?" she muttered, her cries echoing across the cave. "Why have you abandoned me?"

Her weeping caused ripples across the lake. Helplessly, she started to rock herself.

But Albus could hardly breathe.

"Ariana," he breathed in horror.

But she did not register his presence. "Why, Albus?" she cried. "Why have you left me to those wicked Muggles?"

But Albus felt the familiar sting in his eyes as he gazed down longingly at his younger sister. Whatever caution vanished as he approached her with eyes swimming in tears.

"Ariana – I –" he stammered. Inhaling deeply, he started begging. "My dear sister, please forgive me." But she did not register his words. Instead, she continued to weep and weep until his head started to ache with her cries.

"Why, Albus?" she wept hysterically, her cries amplifying. "Why did you kill me, Albus?" Albus's heart wrenched as he tried to sooth the weeping girl.

"Forgive me!" he cried, his tears rivaling a waterfall. "I was a fool, Ariana. Please forgive me."

But the girl shook her head profusely, her hair curtaining her fragile features. Then, her quiet weeps fused into a loud scream as she convulsed violently. But, unlike the first time, Albus caught her before she reached the ground. He wept in anguish when he peered into her vacant blue eyes - so like his, that he abandoned all composure and rationality to envelop her into his arms. Abruptly, however, she banished into a sea of ashes, her remains descending from the spaces between his fingers and into the lake.

With a shaky breath, Albus clumsily collected himself. Fueled with the desire to apologize to his family, he abandoned all rational thought and moved to claim the ring for himself. But as he removed the object, the hand in possession clutched at his wrist for a moment before loosening its grip. Suddenly, however, the corpses of the lake rose from the lake and attempted to clasp his wrists as well. They tried to deny him the ring. But Albus simply drew a ring of fire around the boulder, which caused the Inferi to scream and return to the lake.

Satisfied, Albus breathed deeply, his heart pulsing madly. He had one thought in mind.

It didn't matter the consequences.

To see his family again. That was all he desired.

Slowly, he placed the ring on his finger, eager to meet his family again. But as soon as the ring reached the end of his finger, he suddenly felt a tight congestion around his chest. Sinking to his knees, he felt as if he had been pierced with thorns and needles as he struggled to inhale. His mind was numb with agony as he clenched his teeth, pain coursing through his body.

He was a fool!

It was a trick. He should have realized that the ring was cursed. All of those years spent studying Tom Riddle and taking necessary precautions all vanished in less than a second. But as he sank to his knees and clutched his chest, one thought crossed his mind. He did not wish to die just yet. He did not to want die thinking of Harry as a murderer. He wanted to meet his student again. He yearned to speak to him. To clasp him by his shoulders and beg for his forgiveness.

In his fruitless efforts to protect the boy, Albus had failed him. Bitterly, he thought that he deserved his punishment. He had thought that shielding Harry from harsh truths was necessary, that perhaps he was mitigating Harry's heavy burden. Albus had always envisioned a peaceful life for Harry, perhaps after the war was over. One where he married off like his friends, perhaps had his own children, and perhaps started a family of his own. But alas, fate was a cruel mistress. Harry's fate had been determined by Lord Voldemort alone.

He would never have a peaceful life like his friends.

But Albus felt he owed his student at least a parting gift before he passed. Perhaps Harry would accept his forgiveness so that he could die in peace. With the thought in mind, he uttered a summoning charm and watched a stray pebble appear in his hand. He then pointed his wand at the pebble. It started to gleam. Albus felt the familiar tug in his navel before he found himself back at his office in Hogwarts.

"Albus!" Severus startled at the sight of his crippled Headmaster. He had been impatiently pacing in the office, waiting for the Headmaster to return.

"I was a fool, Severus," Albus muttered, as Severus kneeled beside him.

The Potion Master's eyes swept across the elderly man's figure. His eyes lingered pointedly on the bony fingers around the ring.

"The ring is cursed," Severus stated harshly, guiding Albus to his desk chair. He started to wave his wand in a complicated motion. "Have you lost your wits, Albus? Surely you recognized the signs."

Albus watched blankly as Severus contained the curse into his dead hand and removed the ring.

"I did," he said bluntly, his mind numb with emotions. "But I ignored them, Severus. I was foolish and desperate."

"I fail to grasp your meaning, Albus," Severus stated irritably, his teeth clenched. "What could possibly have driven you to such lengths as to abandon your reasoning?"

Despite himself, Albus smiled.

"My family."

Severus shot him an irritated glare before he resumed his ministration. Albus instinctively knew that he did not have long to live. But Albus sensed that something was troubling the younger man. He sensed unease from Severus, which was very unusual for the typically composed Potion's Master. But as soon as he opened his mouth to inquire, Severus spoke.

"Albus," he said quietly as he finished containing the curse. "Perhaps it is wise to gather the Order of the Phoenix." Severus then proceeded to confide all of the information he had been given that night.

And Albus felt dread fill his heart.

It was time to prepare for battle.

* * *

Collecting her parchments and flicking her brown hair back in a flippant manner, Harper Narsfish exited her office and strode across the corridors, simultaneously resisting the urge to skip. With little commotion, she entered the lift of the Ministry and signaled to the Courtrooms. Passively, she shuffled to and fro on her heels. She nearly smirked by the relative ease that she accomplished her mission.

As she reached the Courtroom level, she scanned the area for Aurors before she stepped out. However, there was one Auror, whose back was facing towards her. Smirking, she approached the man and jabbed her wand into his back. Carelessly, she let him fall forward and land face flat against the tiled surface, his eyes vacant.

Kneeling down, she flipped the corpse and patted her hand down the man's robes. Inside, she found a wand, a wallet, a picture, and a pair of enchanted keys. She tucked all of his possessions in her own pocket before she proceeded onwards towards her destination. Down the corridors she tread, ignoring the pleas and cries of the prisoners. At the end of the corridor, however, her eyes gleamed madly at the figure sprawled along the floor of the cell. Flicking her wand at her self, she approached the cell and leaned arrogantly on the bars.

"Hello, husband," sneered Bellatrix Lestrange, her hair slowly fusing to coal black.

Lestrange simply regarded her a smirk as he stood. He approached the bars.

"About time," he mocked as she held open the door for him. "I was beginning to think I was forgotten." He placed a solemn hand to his heart, as if wounded.

But Bellatrix smirked and handed him his robes, a mask, a cloak, and a wand.

"Not tonight, dear," she cooed tauntingly. "Not during our night of victory," she then raised her wand into the air, sending a spark of light across the ceiling. "Prepare for battle."

* * *

 **A/N:** I know. It's late. Deal with it.

Anyway . . . R&R!


	6. Chapter 6: Path to Where?

"Does everyone know their positions?" Albus Dumbledore addressed the members of the Order, who were circled around him. They nodded. "Then good luck to you all."

Collecting their cloaks and wands, they each stepped outside of the Burrow with their respective partners and prepared to Apparate.

As Ron stood there, waiting for Dumbledore's signal to Apparate, a sense of worry washed over him. He looked across the yard at his wife and his sister standing with their arms intertwined, ready to Apparate. He had been ambivalent about Hermione participating in a battle, especially after just giving birth to their second child. But Hermione was persistent. She had insisted that there just wasn't enough Order members for her to skive off. Though Ron understood her argument, his apprehension about her – and his sister – getting involved in a full-fledged battle worried him.

Grunting audibly, he shuffled closer to Hermione and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Hermione," he sighed, attracting the attention of both females. They both turned to look at him with worry etched across their faces.

"Something wrong, Ron?" said Hermione.

Growling, he ran a hand through his hair.

"Hermione, are you sure you want to go through with this?" he inquired, wincing slightly when she scowled. "I mean, there's no harm in staying home . . . if you get my drift."

She rolled her eyes.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Ron, I'm _fine_ ," she said exasperatedly. Ginny simply winked at Ron from behind her back. "Really, I am. We've been through this before. I haven't been feeling nauseous for days now. I'll be fine."

"But – what if you –?"

"Well, that's why we have a Portkey reserved, isn't it?" she explained as she removed a hairband from her bushy hair. "I suggested it to Albus before we left. Each team will be given a Portkey just in case things go bad. But it only activates for members of the Order. No one else is allowed to use it. That way, we don't have to wait for someone else to save us. We can just disappear on the spot just in case anyone gets badly hurt."

But Ron was gobsmacked. Now, he was convinced.

"You're amazing."

She smiled. "Always the tone of surprise."

"Well, there's our signal," Ginny interjected. She had a coin in her hand that seemed to have heated up significantly. Looking back at her brother, she leaned in to embrace him. "You be careful out there, Ronnikins. I don't think Rosè can live without you."

Despite himself, Ron chuckled.

"No one can," he said, pulling on her hair as the two girls laughed. "Not even you, Ginny."

"Arrogant prat," she laughed, shoving him away roughly.

As Hermione, too, embraced him, the two females smiled reassuringly at him before they Apparated away, leaving unduly anxiety behind. Ron then walked back to where he and Tonks were positioned. Tonks had just finished bidding her husband (with Teddy in his grandmother's care) a farewell before she walked back to him with a smile on her face.

"Wotcher, Ron!" she said, her hair fusing into a light brown color, deliberately switching to a dull color. She didn't want to stand out as Auror Tonks while the Ministry was being infiltrated.

"Tonks," Ron returned the greeting with a nod.

"Nervous, are you?" she said, looking at her watch impatiently. "I know I am."

"Yeah. A bit," he admitted. He sighed wearily as the sun cowered behind the horizons. Night was approaching. "I just hope we make it out alive."

"Don't we all?" she whispered. Ron knew that she was thinking about Teddy. "The last time the Ministry was infiltrated, we lost twenty-seven people. I suppose the Death Eaters thought it would be funny to cast a Shrinking charm on one of the rooms in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Needless to say, the room collapsed on itself and everyone in it was crushed to death," glancing around, she leaned closer and lowered her voice. "But you know what puzzles me? How are they even able to access the Ministry in the first place? It can't be from the outside. There's just too much protection for that sort of thing. It's got to be someone on the inside. And it can't be just anyone. It's got to be someone ripe with power."

Ron's eyes widened.

"The Minister himself, d'you reckon?"

"I don't know," she whispered into the dead of night. Their shadows fanned across the trees and the grass as they pondered this matter. "Maybe someone along that lines. But that's not even the first time something like that's happened. You remember Hepzibah Smi –?"

But they were interrupted by the warmth of the coins in their hands.

"We'll talk about this later," said Ron quietly. Inhaling deeply, he turned to face Tonks directly. "Disillusionment charm. As soon as we arrive at the Ministry. Right?"

But Tonks seemed to have a knack abrupt mood changes. A confident grin formed onto her face.

With a sly wink, she declared.

"Yes, Sir."

"Alright, then," he said, holding out an arm to her. "Let's go." She took his arm, and they both disappeared into the night. They were the last ones to leave.

With only the moon beaming knowingly and the stars twinkling ominously from above, the two individuals landed upright from behind the trees of a large courtyard. Swiftly, they looked around for lingering Muggles. They couldn't step out into the open since they were wearing their Wizarding robes and cloaks.

They checked the area for bystanders before stepping into the courtyard. Leaves brushed against the cemented ground while lamplights leaned towards the fierce winds. Weak orange lights illuminated the paths. Warily, they exited the courtyard and walked across the street, checking for cars, before they passed through. They were looking for something that would lead them to the Ministry.

"Where is it, d'you reckon?" Tonks whispered, still holding on to Ron's arm.

Over the years, she had grown most comfortable with Ron. He had been her active partner and a familiar source of security ever since he had become an Auror. Before he and Neville had become Aurors, she had felt fairly lonely in her job, with only Alastor Moody as her partner. But now that her friends had joined her, she had started enjoying her job a lot more.

It was nice to have a familiar face every now and then. Someone around her age. Someone that didn't sulk in corners or frown miserably after every waking day. Not to mention, sometimes, she liked to play the cowardly role and hide behind the boys when a scary situation transpired. Sometimes, she would even claim credit for their courageous acts at the end of the missions. This, however, drove Ron and Neville mad.

"Dunno, do I?" he whispered in return. "I always take use the fireplace to get to the Ministry."

"Same here."

"But we can't use the fireplaces," said Ron, frowning. "Dumbledore said that the whole Ministry is under lockdown. I s'pose that means that the fireplaces are down, too."

"How are the Death Eaters getting in, then?" when Ron gave her a warning glare, she added hastily. "Sorry. How are the Death munchers getting in?"

Ron shook his head.

"That didn't help," he rubbed his eyes wearily. Tonks winced guiltily, her hair a light blue. "And to answer your question, I don't know. That's what we're trying to find out, aren't we?"

Tonks nodded.

"Right."

Together, they glanced around the streets, looking for some sign of an entry. It had to be an unconventional entrance. Something that was less obvious that would not attract the Muggles. But as they passed alleyways, shops, and restaurants, Ron startled when Tonks suddenly elicited a dramatic gasp.

"Tonks?" he asked in concern.

But Tonks ignored him. She simply grabbed his arm and dragged him behind a stack of cardboard boxes next to a shoe shop. Ron, however, felt dread fill him. Surely there were no Death Eaters here. Not in a highly Muggle concentrated place.

"Ron," she breathed, startled. She pointed with a shaking hand at the other end of the street. " _Look_!"

"What?" he demanded, squinting across the street. "What is it, Tonks?"

But she simply sat there with her jaw wide open. She was practically drooling as she gazed across the street. But Ron could not fathom what she was looking at. He was looking for Death Eaters, but apparently, she was looking at something else.

Suddenly, she flicked her finger lazily over the top of the cardboards. To Ron's surprise, an object zoomed towards her. He had to duck his head to avoid it. When he lifted his head, however, he was gobsmacked. She was admiring herself through a defective lamplight with a floral hat perched onto her head.

He resisted the urge to throttle her.

When she doubled back to look at him, she frowned.

"Oh don't give me that look, Ronnikins!"

Ron was indignant.

"What are you playing at?" he hollered. "You just stole that lady's hat!"

"Oh, come off it! I wasn't _stealing_. I just _blew_ it out of proportion, geddit?" she rolled her eyes, but Ron continued to scowl. "And besides, just look at her. Someone that revolting doesn't deserve such wholesome beauty."

"You're judging her by appearance?" Ron was outraged. And to think that Hermione thought he had an emotional range of a teaspoon. "And here I thought _I_ was insensitive."

"Well, just _look_ at her," she gestured dramatically to the woman in question. The woman was standing, hand on her hip, hollering at a little boy. "Talking to that boy as if he was made of bubotuber pus. She's got her nose up her backside, that one."

"What d'you mean?" said Ron. "That's her son, isn't it? He probably just did something really stupid."

Tonks looked outraged.

"I don't talk to Teddy like that!"

That was a lie. He had caught Tonks admonishing Teddy the same way. But he wasn't about to tell her.

"Well, he probably never gave you a reason to."

Knowing that she was losing the argument, her hair burned red in indignation.

"Oh, you're such a letter downer," she hissed. "Ten years with Hermione really rubs off on you, eh?"

Ron was taken aback.

"Ten years with – what?" he shook his head when he realized how childish their argument was. "Oh, we haven't got time for this. Let's get going."

But as they returned to the street, Tonks stepped in front of him and started walking backwards with a smirk on her face.

"Tonks one. Ron zero."

Ron simply raised an eyebrow.

"Don't get your hopes up just yet," he threatened.

"Is that a challenge, Weasley?"

"You be–"

But as they teased each other, they halted suddenly when a shadow enveloped them. Looking up, they found the source of the shadow. A black-clothed figure stood atop one of the shops peering down curiously at the Aurors in the alley. When he caught their eyes, his eyes widened behind his mask. Stepping back, they caught the swish of his robes before he struggled to scramble away. But Tonks and Ron met each other's eyes quickly before they, too, climbed up to the roofs in an effort to catch the man.

It was definitely a Death Eater.

"Oi," Ron shouted at the man. "Get back here, you cowardly rat!"

Using their wands to levitate themselves across rooftops, they fired consecutive curses at the man, but he was too quick for them. He, too, had attempted to defend himself as he ducked behind pillars and boxes, returning the curses back to them. But as they approached the end of the rooftops, he made a quick dive towards the ground. Ron, however, growled before an idea came to him.

"Oh, no, you don't," he threatened through clenched teeth.

Using the ropes that the Muggles had used to dry their clothes, he fashioned a giant net for the man to fall in. To his relief, the man fell in and Tonks immediately flicked her wand to bind the robes around the frame of the Death Eater, trapping him from head to ankle. Breathing heavily, the two Aurors approached the tightly wound man.

As he approached, however, Ron hesitated in taking off the man's mask. He wasn't ready to face what he had missed for ten years. But as he removed the mask, a faint rush of relief greeted him.

It wasn't Harry.

It was just a regular Death Eater.

"Damn," he breathed quietly, his mood suddenly solemn. "For a moment, I thought . . . I thought–"

"I know," said Tonks quietly.

She then approached the now glaring man and pointedly plucked the wand out of his grip. He wrestled defiantly against his bonds, especially against the ones wrapped around his mouth. But Tonks simply waggled his wand with a sweet smile.

"Did your mother ever teach you how to be civil?" she mocked. His glare simply intensified. "I guess not. But don't fret. A few years in Askaban will straighten you out just right." With a flick of her wand, she sent the man off to the Ministry Detention Area.

As she banished the Death Eater, Ron endeavored to collect his wits and emotions. He then glanced around the rooftops, thinking hard. Illuminating his wand, he traced the man's footprints back to the place that they had originally found him.

"If there are Death Eaters here," he explained. "then the entrance to the Ministry must be close. Hopefully, there aren't too many of them lying about."

"Constant vigilance," Tonks stated seriously. She had her wand drawn out. Now that the Ministry had closed, there was no reason to hide from Muggles anymore.

Though the man had left partial footprints since he had been running quite quickly, Ron quickly traced his movements. He then stopped at a narrow rooftop, which had something akin to a balcony perched on the top. It was tall enough to fit an average sized human being. Ron thought that it was rather unusual that it was placed in such a narrow rooftop. None of the other rooftops shared this characteristics. The room was draped with green curtains and a small wooden door that reached Ron's waist. As Ron approached it, however, he sensed a familiar vibration echoing from the room.

"Aha!" he exclaimed, sounding quite proud of himself for figuring out the riddle.

"You found it?" said Tonks, genuinely surprised. She then approached the room with a slight furrow in her brow. "What exactly is this supposed to be, then?"

"No idea," Ron replied. "But who cares, anyway? At least we know where it leads." As he prepared to enter the room, he was immediately stopped by Tonks.

Glancing at her in bemusement, he said.

"What's up?"

"Don't you think we should mark this place?" she asked. "In case we might need it for the future?"

Ron nodded.

Tonks then drew her wand from her pocket and traced a large 'X' into the air before flicking her wand again to stamp the letter onto the wood. They watched as the letter sank into the wood and disappeared from view. The letter was only visible to them.

"Right, then," she nodded, turning back towards Ron. "Shall we?"

Lifting up his wand, he nodded.

"Disillusionment charms up," declared Ron.

They entered into the cramped space and shouted "Ministry of Magic." Suddenly, the room tilted and shifted, as if struggling to break loose. As the wood scratched against the tilted floors, unexpectedly, the ground disappeared as a slide appeared instead. The usually composed Aurors screamed like deranged hyenas as they slid through a dark tunnel. Suddenly, the tunnel ended, and they were tossed rather rudely on a hard surface with Tonks smashing hard against Ron.

"Sorry," she whispered.

Ron merely grunted in pain. He had received the most pain since he had softened the landing of Tonks with his body. But as their adrenaline effaced, they noticed that they had landed in a room that was dreadfully cold. In fact, they could even see their breaths flowing out in front of them. This fact startled them, however. Why would the Ministry keep a freezing cold room?

"W-what i-is this p-place?" stammered Tonks, inevitably rubbing warmth into her arms.

"Dunno," Ron breathed, bringing a hand towards his breath. "Probably a room in the Ministry?"

The room was asymmetric, with jagged blocks of ice poking out of the walls. Icicles bloomed from the ceilings while snow blanketed the floor. They could hear droplets of water raining down from melted ice and down into the solid ground. A fresh water lake was placed in the center with a large boulder of ice in the center. The room was very unusual, indeed.

"D-d'you r-reckon," Tonks shivered. "t-that we're i-in t-the Dep-partment of M-mysteries?" At her shivering frame, Ron cast a warming charm on her for which she was grateful for.

"I think so," Ron frowned. "That would explain why it looks so out of place from the rest of the Ministry."

"But how is that possible?" Tonks inquired. "No one's allowed in the Department of Mysteries. No one except the Unspeakables. Why would they leave a direct entrance to it?"

"Maybe they didn't expect anyone to find it?"

"I suppose."

"We only found out that entrance after we followed that Death Eater down here," Ron hummed in concentration. "Otherwise, we wouldn't have known about it. That could explain why the Death Eaters have been getting in. I mean, think about it. They're barred from the Floo and the underground lavatory stations. So, the only way to get in is through this path. I mean, who would think to look here?" suddenly, he gasped. "Tonks, I think there might be a traitor in the Department of Mysteries."

"An Unspeakable, d'you reckon?"

"Yeah. They might be helping the Death Eaters get inside," he then started pacing. "That explains why that Death Eater was standing beside the entrance. He was probably waiting for the others to join him."

But Tonks paled, her hair grey.

"You mean . . .?" she stumbled, glancing warily back at the entrance. "They're coming now?"

Suddenly, a loud blast shook the room. Icicles collapsed on their heads as they ducked behind a large white boulder, though they were invisible. Their eyes were wide with horror as they peered at the still closed door.

"I think they're already here," Ron breathed.

"We should've sealed the entrance," Tonks whispered. "I bet you anything there's more of them coming."

But Ron cursed profusely.

"That was our task, remember?" he hissed in frustration. "Dumbledore told us to bar the entrance."

"But what if the others are hurt?"

"More of them will be hurt if we don't shut the entrance."

"Right," she said seriously.

Then, Ron and Tonks proceeded to look for ways which they could bar the entrance. But they were limited on ideas. All they had were large chunks of ice, some snow, a boat load of water, and small wooden sticks to shut the entrance. Ron had suggested that they stack the ice, but Tonks immediately refuted him by stating that the ice can simply be blasted into a million pieces by a mere flick of a wand. He then suggested snow, but snow was too soft to bar an entrance. Suddenly, an idea struck Tonks as she looked at the room. What did the room have in common?

Water.

"Aha!" she exclaimed. To emphasize her point, she flicked her fingers and a drape of fire was emitted from her hand. "I've got it! Let's melt the room."

Ron, however, was taken aback.

"You're joking, right?"

"Nope," she stated seriously. "I'm dead serious."

"Now you're really barking," he said, waving a hand in front of her face. She frowned. "You'll drown us in here, d'you know?"

"I didn't say we should stay here, _Ronald_ ," she said in a biting tone. "We'll light it up and leave it. So if you'll excuse me, I've got my reputation to burn." With a loud _hmph_ , she went to collect all of the wooden sticks in the room to prepare the fire.

Ron merely huffed.

Bloody women!

With eyebrows furrowed, he looked at the small flame that she had conjured. But he could not fathom how the hell she was going to burn the whole room with such a small flame.

"That fire won't burn a centipede," he said with a prominent scowl. She simply rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"It will if you light it up at just the right places."

"I don't understand."

"Then observe, Ronnikins," she flicked her wand at the fire.

A rush of wind seemed to have rushed from her wand to the fire, which caused the fire to expand slightly. She continued to blow wind at the flame. It appears as though she was guiding the fire through a certain path until it encased the bottom of a rather large and dry boulder in the center of the room. The rush of wind kept the fire burning. After almost a quarter of an hour, the boulder collapsed, which caused the whole room to shake. The two immediately knew that they had to leave before the room collapsed. As they exited the room, however, Ron peered back and cast a final blasting charm at the room, ensuring its demolishment. When he exhaled and shut the door, he turned to find the smug look of Tonks smirking at him with crossed arms.

"Alright, alright," he admitted irritatingly. "I never should have doubted you. Happy?"

But she raised a brow.

"And?"

He sighed and pinched his nose.

"You were right."

"Of course I was. Or my name isn't Tonks."

"Well, it _isn't_ Tonks," he retorted smugly. "It's Nympha- _Ouch_!" He puffed when she elbowed him roughly. Her hair was as red as a Weasley's.

"Don't call me by that vile name!" she shouted. "I don't understand why my mother insists on me keeping it."

"Maybe because you look –" he said dryly before he exclaimed. "Ow! That bloody hurt!" but she simply glared. "You vile creature!"

"Foul menace!"

"Wicked demon!"

But they were interrupted by another large blast. They ducked near the corners of the corridor as rubble sprinkled on the top of their heads. Their Disillusionment charms had worn off because of their lack of attention to the spell. Thus, they glanced at each other quickly, lifted their wands, and walked across the corridor. They looked at the round at the various rooms. Some doors stood ajar while other rooms were concealed from view. To their bewilderment, the Department of Mysteries remained largely untouched.

"There's no one here," breathed Tonks, peering into a room with steaming colorful pots arranged in an intricate pattern.

"I wouldn't write it off just yet," Ron replied, jerking his thumb at the end of the corridor.

They ducked under a steaming green table and watched the two figures conversing across the room. From their positions, it was impossible to distinguish whether the two were Death Eaters or Unspeakables since they couldn't distinguish the color of their robes. The corridor was dark and eerie. Instead, they watched as the two figures nodded before they swept out with their cloaks billowing behind them.

"Death Eaters, d'you reckon?" whispered Tonks.

"Dunno," he said. "But I bet they know what's up."

"You mean about the Ministry?"

"Yeah."

"Reckon we should introduce ourselves?"

"Ladies, first," Ron smirked.

Tonks, in turn, glared at him before tiptoeing down the corridor. Her hair shortened and fused into a dim grey color. She forced a bushy beard onto her chin and attempted to clear her throat quietly before she approached one of the men.

"Oi!" she shouted in a slightly masculine voice. "You there!"

The hooded man looked back, startled by the sudden loud tone in what was usually a silent corridor. But Tonks, taking advantage of his stillness, marched up to him.

She didn't really know how to play it subtle.

"Didn't think you'd get caught, did you?" she snapped, "Don't give me that look. I know what you did. Standing here, fouling the place up with that dreadful smell. How many Dungbombs you got in there, mate?"

"D-dungbombs?" the man stammered, confused. His hand then reached for his arm ever-so-subtly. "I don't know what you're talking about. Perhaps you should reevaluate your evidence before you accuse me," he then smirked behind his mask. " _Sir_."

But Tonks had caught the slip of his hand.

" _Stupefy_!" she cried, sending the man crashing against the hard wall.

"Maybe a bit quieter next time, don't you think?" said a voice behind her. Ron returned with a rather annoyed look about him.

"A simple 'thank you' would be nice, you know," she grumbled.

"Thanks?" Ron looked outraged. "For what? For selling us out?" he then shook his head. "I wouldn't be surprised if there was an entire stampede waiting for us outside."

Tonks burned red in indignation.

"If you think you would've done it better," she hissed. "Why didn't you do it, then?"

"Oh, I don't _think_ I would've done better. I _know_ I would."

But as Tonks opened her mouth to retort, soft footsteps from behind her silenced her. Suddenly, a quiet whisper emerged from the shadows.

"Ron? Tonks?"

As if a veil was lifted, Hermione and Ginny appeared from thin air, their expressions torn between bewilderment and relief.

"Hermione!" Ron breathed. "Ginny! What are you two doing here? I thought you were at the Atrium."

"We were," said Ginny, looking slightly troubled. "But – Ron, there's no sign of any Death Eaters. We've searched the entire Ministry. We even asked the workers if there were any masked men around the building, but they all denied it. I don't know what they're playing at. Hermione reckons that they're hiding behind Disillusionment charms themselves, but that's not right. None of us have been hurt. We even checked up with others. They haven't been touched."

"You reckon it's a trap?" Ron asked.

"I don't know, Ron," said Hermione, trepidation in her tone. "Whatever it is, I don't like it. We can't even identify the source of the blasts. All of the rooms in the Ministry are intact. It's almost as if there weren't any blasts in the first place."

"Hermione," Tonks interjected, her tone suddenly serious. "You don't happen to have any Vertiserium in that purse of yours, have you?"

Hermione looked startled.

"Yes, Tonks," she said, hesitating. "But that's – that's _illegal_."

But the rest glanced at each other in exasperation.

"Hermione," said Ron. "This isn't exactly the best time to worry about legal matters. Give us the Vertiserium." He held out his hand demandingly.

Still, she hesitated.

"Hermione," said Ginny softly. "If this really is a trap, then we need to know now. Otherwise, everyone else is in trouble."

Slowly, Hermione reached into her purse and rummaged through it until she found the vial. Then, she handed it to Tonks who forced the liquid down the Death Eater's throat and pointed a wand directly at his head.

" _Enervate_ ," she whispered.

The man grumbled inaudibly before squinting open unfocused eyes.

"Who do you work for?" demanded Ron.

"The Dark Lord."

"How did you get here?" asked Ginny, glancing cautiously at Ron.

"Through the tunnel in the Department of Mysteries."

Hermione and Ginny looked confused, but the other two mouthed "later" before they continued to interrogate the Death Eater.

"How many Death Eaters are here tonight?"

"A whole army," he said flatly.

"Where are they?" asked Hermione, growing pale by the minute.

"At the Atrium."

The four each furrowed their eyebrows; Hermione and Ginny looked simply startled. They had checked the Atrium, but there were no sign of any Death Eaters.

"This has got to be a trap," muttered Tonks as she ran beside the others to the Atrium.

She had just finished stunning the Death Eater, tied him up, and left him in a Potion's cupboard. They all struggled to remain composed at the bizarre situation. If there were Death Eaters present at the Atrium, why haven't they cast any spells yet? The Order members had been running to and fro for hours. Why haven't hurt one of them?

And more importantly, where were they hiding? Dumbledore wasn't set to arrive for another thirty minutes. What if it was a trap? Then, the Order would be trapped without their leader. Shaking her head out of her anxious thoughts, she halted behind Ron as soon as they arrived at the Atrium. To her surprise, however, all of the Order members were present, looking just as bewildered and confused as she did.

"You haven't found anything, either?" asked Bill, frowning at Ginny.

Ginny, in turn, shook her head with a worried look about her. Their Disillusionment charms that they had all used to conceal themselves were abandoned.

"It's strange," muttered Remus. "Dumbledore told us to split up, but now we're all here together . . . Something isn't right."

But their blood stilled when a cold voice interjected.

"Well, now that I have your attention," said the smirking Dark Lord, who had seemingly appeared out of thin air in the center of the room, his hood concealing his snake-like features. "Let the celebrations begin."

He then flicked his wand curtly, which caused the doors to slam shut. The curtains from above the doors descended above the entrance and were abruptly transformed into steel. Then, suddenly, as if a veil was lifted, almost fifty hooded Death Eaters appeared from behind Lord Voldemort, their faces concealed from view. Two pairs of red eyes glared at them coldly. And the Order members had one thought . . .

They were trapped.

* * *

 **A/N:** So . . . I was going to make the battle one whole chapter, but I like to keep the updating consistent. So I cut it short. Anyway . . . I hope I got Ron and Tonks right. Harry will be _slightly_ different, but that's because of what happened to him during his ten years with Voldemort. I'll go into details next chapter. Hope you liked it!

Please R&R!


	7. Chapter 7: Battle of the Ministry

"Ah, my friends. How long has it been?" said Lord Voldemort, his hands clasped in front of him. "Ten years it's been since I have last stepped foot in the Ministry. Ten years since I have last revealed myself to the public. Ten years since I have last been thwarted by the so-called Chosen One," the Order fliffvnched. "Yet here we stand. Brought here by my invitation. Perhaps you might consider yourselves as my _guests of honor_."

"You bastard!" Ron shouted, fury pulsing through his veins.

Voldemort flicked his wand lazily at Ron, who had stepped out of the Order circle with his wand drawn out. But Voldemort side-stepped his curse and sent Ron collapsing onto his knees. His chest suddenly felt congested.

"Ron!" Hermione cried.

She rushed to kneel beside him. He spat out a mouthful of blood. Voldemort had struck him with a Cutting Curse to his chest. But as Hermione moved to heal him, the other Order members shouted in outrage.

"Murderer!" Neville shouted.

He slammed against an invisible barrier in the center of the room. A ripple of laughter crossed the Death Eaters, who were standing behind Voldemort.

Voldemort looked at Neville with gleam in his red eyes. He paced along the barrier, unfazed by the looks of hatred from the Order Members.

"And who is this dogged young man that dares to challenge Lord Voldemort?" he hissed. As he passed through the throng of his followers, the Death Eaters parted to let him pass.

A rough voice from behind Voldemort answered.

"Neville Longbottom, Master."

"That's right," Neville spat, wrestling against the grips of both Remus and Bill.

"Neville Longbottom," Lord Voldmort breathed. "Son of Frank and Alice Longbottom. Perhaps you remember them, Bellatrix?" he said, turning to the Death Eater in question. She lowered her hood and smirked. "The reason for you and your husband's incarceration," Rodolphus hissed behind his hood. "But do not dismay. You shall have your vengeance," he smirked. "in due time."

"Thank you, Master," the Lestranges bowed. They kissed the hem of their master's robes in gratitude before stepping back.

"But this is familiar, is it not?" said Lord Voldemort. "For every idea, there is opposition. For every protagonist, there is an antagonist. For every ruler, there is an adversary. As humans, of course, we recognize these differences. We acknowledge them through either peace or conflict. Yet the root cause for war and suffering are our differences. Or rather, the tendencies of our minds to believe that such differences exist. Our loyalties, our backgrounds, our moral boundaries separate us, prevent us from recognizing the opposing side. It is our differences that lead us to believe that we are enemies. But this is nothing more than a misconception . . ."

Voldemort paused in his speech. Ron, who had been scanning the room for an exit, suddenly stiffened. He noticed that there was a hooded figure dressed in black robes and a cloak, just like the other Death Eaters. His position was slightly different than the rest. Unlike the Death Eaters, he stood two steps in front of the other Death Eaters, yet two steps behind Voldemort. He did not speak. Nor did he even appear to be listening to a word that Voldemort said. His head was bowed towards the ground. As if sensing that Ron was watching him, the figure lifted his shadowed eyes and met Ron's eyes with a hard stare. Ron could've sworn that he saw a flicker of red pass through the figure's eyes before he lowered his gaze again.

"As the fool Dumbledore would say," Lord Voldemort said mockingly. "Let us lay aside our differences. Denounce your previous ways. Your leader has abandoned you. He has been treating you all like pigs for slaughter. And on what basis? On the basis of the greater good? Sacrifice your lives in exchange for peace for the majority, perhaps he would say. But I, Lord Voldemort, treat my followers as equals. I am no coward. I stand beside them in battle and reward them as I see fit."

"You lair!" shouted Tonks, her hair burning red in indignation.

"Do not disrespect the Dark Lord, foolish girl!" Bellatrix hissed from behind Voldemort.

The two glared at each other.

"Anyone who disrespects Albus Dumbledore doesn't deserve respect," shouted Angelina, tightening her grip around her husband's fore-arm.

A ripple of disapproval passed over the Death Eaters. They glanced at each other warily. But the hooded figure standing behind Voldemort didn't stir nor did he lift his head. He remained silent and unflustered.

To Ron's dismay, Voldemort did not appear intimidated at all. He simply looked at them with faint amusement. As if he had expected their reactions.

"Such loyalty," he muttered softly, "Such profound loyalty. Ah, but how familiar this scene is. I remember perhaps, fifteen years ago, when I shared the body of Quirnius Quirrell, I offered my allegiance with a similar-minded boy," Ron quickly glanced at his watch. Dumbledore should be arriving in fifteen minutes. "A boy with determination and loyalty that far surpassed any of yours. I offered him power and greatness, the likes of which he had never seen! And yet . . . he refused. His young mind was defiled with ideas of love and compassion. I knew that these ideas were the product of that senile old fool. Time and time again, I offered the boy a place by my side. And time and time again, he refused . . . I am speaking, of course, of Harry Potter."

Gasps emerged from the Order at the mention of their former friend. They glanced at each other hastily before fixing their eyes on Voldemort. Curiosity seemed to dominate their emotions. But the Death Eaters simply laughed quietly.

"Ah, yes, Harry Potter," he said coldly, halting his pacing near the fringe of the Death Eaters. "The Boy-Who-Lived, or as he is known now as, the Chosen One. The only person alive that could resist my Imperius curse. The one who has challenged me more times than any witch or wizard alive. The one who was once regarded as my downfall . . . The one who now stands beside me as my Right Hand." He gestured to the silent figure standing beside him.

The Order members stilled with shock and despair at the reticent figure of Harry Potter. Some glared openly at him. Others, Hermione especially, looked anguished at the sight of him.

"Harry," she croaked, stepping forward.

Ron, however, held her back protectively. He was slowly losing his temper at the sight of his former friend, though Harry had yet to react or register his surroundings. He felt the air around him condense, which had nothing to do with the spell that Voldemort had cast. He simply stood there and glared openly at Harry's hooded figure.

At the moment, he hated him more than he hated Voldemort.

"Lower your hood, Harry," smirked Voldemort. "There is nothing more to hide."

Harry glanced at Voldemort from under his hood before he nodded. He lifted his hands and lowered his hood. There, beside Voldemort, stood the proof of all they had feared for ten years. The doubts, the uncertainty, the questions that they had built for ten years had banished in that instant.

There was no mistaking him. His dark hair was as unruly as ever. His round glasses gleamed under the light. His cursed scar peeked out from under his bangs. But what stood out this time . . . What distinguished him from the friend that they had known in the past . . . were the piercing red eyes that glared at them from beneath his fringe.

"As you can see," Voldemort continued, amused by the horrified faces of the Order members. "Harry here has denounced his old ways. He has seen the truth. He has accepted it. He will no longer believe in the lies fashioned by the one you claim as your leader," the Death Eaters cackled, yet Harry remained silent. "As you can see, the Prophecy is nothing more than the wishful thinking of fools like Albus Dumbledore. No witch or wizard shall ever challenge Lord Voldemort. Not even the Chosen One, who now stands at my side."

But Ron, feeling fury lick at his insides, violently snapped.

"You _traitor_!" he bellowed, his voice thundering across the room.

But he didn't care. He was blinded with fury.

He jerked his arm from under Hermione's grip and stepped forward. He began thrusting any curse that he could imagine at the barrier. He hoped that he could break it so that he could tackle Harry to the ground and ring his neck.

He had known . . . he had _seen_ what Peter Pettigrew's betrayal had done to his parents. Pettigrew had exchanged the life of Lily and James Potter for the luxury of his own. In turn, they had left their only son – abandoned and neglected under the so-called care of his relatives. He had endured hell from them. Did that not teach him a lesson? Did it not cross that thick head of his that betrayal was a terrible thing? Had he not nearly killed Pettigrew in his grief over his parents?

No. Instead, he, too, had gone and betrayed his friends.

"Enough, Ron," said Bill impatiently. He tried to disarm his younger brother, but Ron easily dodged his efforts.

"Don't bother," Voldemort smirked. "He shall have his vengeance soon. Before we begin, however, I shall ask you all once again. Who here is willing to denounce their old ways? To serve beside me as my equal? Speak now or forever hold your peace."

Behind him, he Death Eaters laughed.

The room radiated with tension. The Order members glared pointedly at each other, the Death Eaters smirking behind their masks.

But Voldemort spoke.

"So be it," he declared coldly. He turned to the Death Eaters. "Leave no witch or wizard alive. If, by any chance, Albus Dumbledore steps foot into the Ministry, you are to flee at once . . . And Harry," he then turned to the figure beside him and whispered with his eyes fixed on Ron, " _Kill him_."

And for the first time, Harry spoke.

"With pleasure," he said coldly.

His cloak parted as he drew his wand. He fixed Ron with a glare. The two, once inseparable friends, – once brothers in all but blood – stood glaring at each other with intense hatred on either side of the barrier. One in the name of Albus Dumbledore. The other in the name of the Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort elicited one final smirk before he vanished, no doubt by a Portkey. As he left, the barrier that he had created vanished along with him. Every individual in the room drew their wands and proceeded to cross the place where the barrier had been before. Within a few seconds, the entire room was filled with blasts, shouts, and flashes of light.

They were trapped in there. It was either live or die.

Harry and Ron simply stood on opposite ends of the room, waiting for the other's first move. As Ron glared, he instinctively knew that there was no talking Harry out of this. His gaze was cold and unyielding. A stark contrast to the friend that he had once known.

He was either going to die by Harry's wand or kill Harry himself.

"Stop this, Harry!" Hermione cried, stepping in between the two men "You can't approve of this. V-Voldemort – he's lying to you, Harry! Can't you see it?"

"Don't bother, Hermione," Ron said, a bite in his tone. "We're just another victim in his eyes," he then asked bitterly. "How many innocent people have you killed there, mate?"

"Not enough to fill a graveyard," he replied coldly. "There's still room for one more."

He then flicked his wand curtly. Ron shouted and tackled Hermione to the ground as a chandelier came crashing down from above them.

They missed it by an inch.

"Hermione," he yelled, pulling her to her feet. He dragged her behind a tapestry near the walls and grasped her by the shoulders. "If you can't concentrate, then leave. This isn't the Harry that we knew before. He _will_ kill you."

Yet Hermione remained ambivalent. She sensed that the friend that she had once known was still there . . . but hidden. After all, she had not missed the change of his eye color.

"No, Ron," she shook her head stubbornly. "Something isn't right. This isn't the real Harry. I can't explain it, but maybe we should wait for Dumbledore to settle this," when Ron opened his mouth to retort, she whispered softly. "Just don't hurt him, Ron."

He pecked her on the forehead.

"I won't hurt him," he promised. But they yelped when the tapestries suddenly caught fire. Hermione, however, reacted and extinguished it with water. Ron quickly, and rather reluctantly, dragged her back to the battle. "Go. I'll hold him off."

With a determined nod, she rushed back to the battle, joining Ginny and Luna against Bellatrix Lestrange.

He then turned his steel gaze onto the dark-clothed figure standing in front of him. It wasn't going to be easy to keep his promise to Hermione. His blood drummed with thundering hatred for Harry. He had heard . . . He had _seen_ all of the crimes that Harry had committed. He had to lift the bodies of his victims. He had to inform their families of the crime. He had to watch them weep in sorrow. All on account of his once friend.

"Go on, _Potter_ ," he spat in disgust. He refused to recognize this – _monster_ as the Harry that he had once known. "Don't want to disappoint your master, do you?"

Swiftly, he fired the disarming charm, but Harry simply deflected it with a wave of his hand.

"Not likely," he replied flatly.

But Ron was startled when Harry suddenly flicked his cloak. His cloak fell around his thin figure, as if he had surrendered. For a heart stopping minute, Ron thought that he had gotten his friend back. That Harry had merely fooled everyone by offering allegiance to Voldemort. But no sooner had the thought crossed his mind did the ground below him tremble and collapse. Ron, however, quickly levitated himself to avoid the fall. But Harry immediately countered him.

"Not so fast," he warned.

His wand appeared once again in his hand. A blinding light emitted from his wand, and Ron went crashing down into the floor beneath him. His back hit the tiled floor with a loud _crack_. Groaning, he felt like his breath had been knocked out of him. With a shuddering breath, he lifted himself by his arms.

He looked around and found himself in one of the Auror's office. The room was vacant, a large oak desk and a chair near the front. Stacks of parchment leaned precariously on the desk. Pictures and startled portraits were plastered against the walls. He hoped that at least one of the Aurors had heard his crashing and perhaps come to the aid of the Order. But he startled at the sound of shattering glass.

Bloody hell.

Ron rolled aside as shards of glass rained down from above him. Quickly climbing to his feet, he summoned his wand and quickly cast a shield against the incoming curses from behind him. Suddenly, the walls above him collapsed. The debris nearly fell onto his head, but he lifted his left hand and halted it in midair. With one hand holding up his shield and the other holding the debris, he was slowly losing strength. Sinking to his knees, he concentrated intensely on the two spells.

"You're not as bad as I thought," said a voice near him.

Ron looked up, startled. But he was too late. He was blasted against the desk, sending parchments flying around him. He groaned as the cracked wood stabbed into his shoulder. Squinting his eyes open painfully, he looked up when a shadow crossed his vision. A wand was pointed directly at him, eager to seal his fate.

"Going to kill me, mate?" he whispered, staring stubbornly at the cold red eyes. There was no mercy in his gaze. Ron's hand reached discreetly for his wand. "Do it, if you'd like. No one will regret it as much as you will."

He must have imagined it but a flicker of hesitance crossed Harry's eyes. His wand, however, remained firm and unwavering. Taking advantage of his inattention, Ron reached out to grasp Harry's wand and twisted it to where his curse would hit the wall. Shards of glass from the cracked portraits pierced their skin. But Ron quickly blasted Harry across the room, sending him crashing him against the bookcases that aligned the walls.

He stood breathing heavily with both wands in his hand. But as Harry attempted to climb to his feet, Ron quickly strode across the room and wrapped his hands around his throat.

"I never took you as a coward, Harry!" he bellowed, slamming him against the glass ornaments on top of the bookcase. The broken glass stabbed his body before he was slammed roughly against the ground. Shattered wood pierced the top of his head. Groaning, Harry reached up to clutch his head. But as blood descended down profusely from the spaces between his fingers, Ron realized with a sense of dread in his heart what he had done.

He had broken his promise.

He had hurt Harry.

Harry, however, glared fiercely at him from his position on the floor. Before Ron could blink, he banished in an instant. Ron knew that he had vanished beneath the Invisibility Cloak. But Ron's heart pulsed madly.

How could he fight if he couldn't see his opponent?

But Harry had weakened. He couldn't have travelled far. Ron focused on hearing and looked towards the ground for shoe prints. The door to the office remained cracked but shut. He glanced around the room for movements when he heard it. The faint crack of wood. But as he whirled around and cast his shield in the direction of the sound, he realized that he had been tricked.

The curse had come from above him.

He gasped in pain when his back hit the cracked door. His wand clattered to the floor. He looked up only to find that Harry had summoned his wand. Kneeling, he coughed blood beside Harry's feet. But Harry merely studied him with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

"What's the matter?" said Ron hoarsely, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his robes. "Too cowardly to do it, then? What are you waiting for? For hell to freeze over?"

But as Ron rose to his feet, he felt a pressure on his knees. He sank back down again.

"No," Harry replied nonchalantly, draping his cloak around himself again. "I'm trying to figure out the best way to _send a message_."

Before Ron could think, he felt as if chains had wrapped around his hands and feet that floated him back into the Atrium. Before he reached the ground, he was blasted again. He felt himself flying through the room before he was suddenly halted and dropped down softly. He looked around only to find his brother, Fred, nodding at him before returning to his duel against Avery.

Weak and exhausted, he climbed painfully to his feet. With a sudden dread in his heart, he realized that he could not win this fight.

Not against Harry.

Harry had always shown an aptitude to Defense against the Dark Arts. He had always been the best at dueling, the best at keeping his cool in difficult situations, the best at defensive and offensive spells. That had been his strength. He had even surpassed Hermione through sheer natural talent. He had even startled his teachers and his peers. But then Ron remembered that he didn't have to win this fight. He only needed to stall for a while longer.

But where the _hell_ was Dumbledore?

Before he could think, he felt himself rise above the ground by his throat. Breathing heavily, he peered down with sheer revulsion at the figure below him. Harry's hand tightened around his throat. He had abandoned all magic, and instead, opted for the slower method.

"Let this be a lesson," he hissed, clenching his fist. "to anyone who dares to cross the Dark Lord." With that last note, Ron was slammed roughly against the wall.

He felt the ropes of the tapestries wrap tightly around his hands and feet that kept him upright. Harry, in turn, stepped back. Ron clenched his teeth and suppressed a scream as his muscles contracted painfully. Harry was pouring every ounce of hatred and bitterness into him. With the pain pulsing through him, every excuse that he had given Harry faded from his mind.

He didn't care what kind of suffering that Harry had endured. He didn't care that he had been orphaned at an early age. And he certainly didn't care that he had been the first to accept Ron for who he was, rather than compare him to his brothers. He couldn't stifle the pain. Instead, he elicited a long, drawn out scream that vibrated across the room.

There were also others that had suffered, perhaps not as much as him, but they had endured hell as well . . . And yet, they were never bitter or vindictive. They were kind and compassionate . . . like the Harry that he had once known. But as he felt his consciousness fading, he heard an anguished cry from the other side of the room.

"Harry!" cried a female voice, sprinting across the room. As she approached, she slammed across an invisible shield from behind Harry. "Please stop this, Harry! You can't do this. Please don't hurt him!"

Harry halted his curse.

He shifted his attention to the anguished girl. Ron panicked when Harry glared at her.

Oh, God.

Not _Hermione._

"Stay out of this," he snapped, throwing Hermione an irritated glance. His wand steeled in Ron's direction. "You're not part of this."

Hermione continued to fight against the shield.

"Oh, this is _stupid_ , Harry!" she cried, though the force of the shield was throwing her backwards, "How can you do this? Can't you remember? We were friends before. Does that mean nothing to you?" tears sprang in her eyes when Harry refused to lower his wand, "Look, I don't know what Voldemort has done to you, and I know that you think that we've abandoned you, but we can figure this out together. We've always had," she lowered her gaze, "I know that we should've never stopped looking for you, but Harry, believe me when I say that we searched every inch of London to find you. And you're here now . . . _Please_ , Harry. See reason."

But as Hermione continued to beg, something flickered in Harry's eyes. But only Ron could see the change. His eyes darkened. He reached up to clutch his forehead as if in great pain.

"I said, stay out of this," he growled, his eyes glistening with pain.

His wand shook, though it was hardly noticeable. But as he removed his hand from his forehead, his composure returned. Lifting his wand, he steadied it in Ron's direction. Ron saw his lips utter the curse and closed his eyes as Hermione's screams pierced his ears.

"Harry, no!" she screamed.

A flash of light blinded their eyes.

Ron felt the ropes of the tapestries loosen until he slammed to the ground, groaning and cursing profusely.

Harry's curse had hit the wall.

Distraught, Hermione sank to her knees and sobbed, her bushy locks sticking to her face. But as she regained composure, she realized what had happened. Harry, too, looked startled and irritated as he glanced at the doors.

They were saved!

To their surprise, Albus Dumbledore stood, with all of his glory, pointing a wand in Harry's direction. They could feel the intense magic radiating from his form. He looked grave but solemn.

His steel gaze remained fixed on Harry.

"Hermione," he said quietly, his gaze fixed on Harry. "Ron is injured. If you will, kindly escort him out of the Ministry. He has done his part well tonight," when she glanced worriedly at Harry, he added sternly. "I will deal with Harry."

She nodded and crossed over to her husband. She glanced one last time at Harry before she felt the pull in her navel and banished on the spot. All around the room, the sounds of injured Order members disappearing filled his ears.

But Albus trusted them enough to fend for themselves.

Instead, he kept his gaze firmly on his former student, the one that he had long yearned to meet again, the one who had caused him much guilt and anguish, the one whose glaring red eyes shattered his heart. With a sudden dread in his heart, he realized his mistake.

Harry had never learned Occlumency.

"You have failed here tonight, Harry," he declared softly. Harry clenched his teeth. "In your efforts to kill Mr. Weasley, you have failed to prevent my entry," Albus noticed that Harry's hand clenched around his wand. He knew that he was going to fire a curse. "Tell me, Harry, what is the consequence for your failure tonight?"

Narrowing his eyes, he said.

"Your life."

Albus quickly cast a shield against the incoming curse. He slid a few feet away near the fountain in the center, slightly repelled by the curse. But as he recovered, a wave of water rose above the fountain and circled around him until it had formed into a ball. But he simply manipulated it until it had formed into a thin line that he used to wrap around Harry. He needed Harry to be still. As he did, however, Harry immediately vanished from beneath it and reappeared behind him.

But this time, Albus was ready.

He blasted him to the wall, narrowly avoiding the duel between Remus and Crabbe. As he approached him, however, he looked down sadly at his weakened form.

"Ah, Harry," he shook his head in anguish. "How I sought to protect you," he stepped back as a curse rushed past his ear. "How I mourned for you," he looked down in weary sadness as Harry stumbled to his feet with a hand clutching his side. "Even now, I can hardly stand before you without marveling the fact that you are alive, that you are healthy, despite all of the suffering that you have endured, despite all of the deceit brought on by Voldemort. Harry, I can only hope that you will find it in yourself to forgive me – for an old fool's mistake."

But there was that determined expression in his eyes again. Albus recognized that look. He would not surrender. But Albus wished that he would. He did not want to hurt Harry. Not while knowing that he was not only hurting Voldemort, but also the real Harry beneath the surface.

But Harry rose to his feet, breathing heavily. His robes were torn and drenched with blood. His head was bleeding profusely. Albus tried to approach him before another curse caused him to step back.

"Call off your Order," he said stiffly, conjuring a full shield against the incoming curses. "Then we'll talk."

"The Order?" Albus inquired calmly. "The Order serves to fight against every inhumane act that Tom Riddle has committed. Not unlike what you had done during your five year stay at Hogwarts. You fought him, Harry! You defied him in the name of your parents, your friends, your peers," as Harry clasped his forehead, Albus knew that he was getting through to him. "Your compassion for others, Harry, your love for your parents gave you the strength that he never had. Your mother . . ." he lowered his voice. "Lily's sacrifice. Surely you will not lay it all to waste. Tom Riddle can never understand what is like to feel, or to be, loved. He can never possess your mind as long as you continue to feel love. But your bitterness, Harry, your grief, is strengthening his grip on you."

With a heavy heart, he approached the young man.

Harry had a palm over his face. He was groaning in pain.

"Lay it all aside, Harry," he said softly, placing his dead hand on his shoulder. "If not for your friends, remember your mother."

"I never knew her," Harry whispered from behind his hand. His voice was still bitter. And Albus hurried to settle his worries.

"But you do," he said firmly before a smile dawned his features. "She lives within you."

Harry remained silent for a long moment with a hand over his face. Albus could see his struggle to fight off Voldemort. The words were sinking in slowly, yet his magic still vibrated with Dark Magic.

Voldemort's presence was still in the room.

Suddenly, he removed his hand and stepped back.

"If you really cared for me," he hissed. But Albus froze at his next words. "you would do what you should've done ten years ago."

Harry tossed his wand aside as he waited for Albus's next move. He stood tall before the elderly man – daring him, challenging him to do it. To kill him. But Albus's breath hitched in his throat. Again, he was forced into this dilemma. Again, Voldemort was inviting him to kill, not only a part of himself, but another soul as well. But he couldn't do it. He cared too much for Harry. To kill Harry. To kill the son of James and Lily Potter, who had, for the past ten years, brought much pain and suffering to countless victims.

But Harry himself was innocent. He had never intended to commit those crimes. He was forced into that situation. The lips that had uttered that Killing Curse was his, but the soul present in that vessel at the time was not. It had never been his choice. Albus remembered telling him that choices define the individual.

But where would the justice for the victims lie if the suspect himself was not punished? What is the verdict for a criminal with two faces, one benign and one corrupt? Should both be punished, or only one of them? But if both faces occupied the one body, then the hand that lifted the weapon was the same . . .

But then, he thought of Harry's immanent fate . . . He was never meant to have survived as an infant. Not while Lord Voldemort lives on in his veins. But if he killed him now . . . If he killed him for his crimes . . . Albus feared what would await him after. But as he looked into his cold red eyes, he made a decision.

Lifting his wand, he watched as Harry eyed his wand warily before he shouted.

" _Legilimens_!"

Harry deserved a second chance.

As Albus entered his memories, he was appalled by what he witnessed. He watched as Voldemort poured every ounce of hatred for Harry onto him. The private meetings between him and Voldemort were nothing more than torture sessions, where Harry would lay bleeding and trembling after prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. He watched dreadfully as Harry leaned against the bars of his cell, his life leaning precariously close to the end. He watched as Harry struggled to heal himself. The fact that he had immersed himself in healing spells made sense now. It was for his own survival as well as a useful tool for others. He watched as Harry constantly endured his worst fears in the dungeons – the Dementors.

However, as he sifted through his memories, Albus slowly grew desperate. He couldn't find the memories of Harry's five years in Hogwarts. In fact, he couldn't find a single memory of Ron, Hermione, Remus, or the Weasleys. He couldn't find a memory of Hogwarts at all. Not of his Sorting, not of Hagrid, not of Dobby. All he found were memories of the Dursley's as well as bits of himself and the ten years with Voldemort.

A deep-seated sadness overcame him. He realized what Voldemort had done.

Lowering his wand, his eyes watered as Harry screamed and sank to his knees with both hands over his head. As if his head had split open. His screams echoed across the room. A sick tale of what he had endured.

"My dear boy," he said wearily. How could he have let this happen? "My dear, dear boy. What have they done to you?"

He had failed him. He had _sworn_ . . . He had promised himself to protect the boy at all cost. For James and Lily. The two that had been the pedestal of hope, the pedestal of optimism. James had always been the enthusiast, the one whose grin strengthened the hopes of the ones around him. And Lily . . . dear, sweet Lily . . . the one whose gentle heart warmed the fiercest villain's . . . the one whose lovely green eyes sparked with hope and innocence . . . But their son . . . Their son had seen too much, had been through too much that he was left almost . . .

Broken.

He was an echo of his parents. Yet, shared none of their hope and enthusiasm. His hard demeanor, haunted eyes, and scarred body distinguished him from his parents. The spark of innocence that was once there had extinguished somewhere around his Third Year at Hogwarts.

Albus should have known that it was fruitless to try and keep it.

But Harry's screams died down after what seemed like an eternity. His breaths, too, settled. He lowered his hands to his knees, a sense of resignation in his posture. He remained still for a long moment before he snapped his head up at the sound of blasts and shouts within the room. As he looked up, Albus realized with faint hope in his heart that Harry's eyes were green once more.

"You won't do it, then?" Harry asked softly, his gaze fixed on the battle. Albus, however, startled. It seems like Harry had been conscious during his possession.

But Albus gave him a regretful look.

"It is beyond my powers, Harry," he shook his head. "I care too much for your well-being to commit such an act." He wanted Harry to understand that.

Harry's gaze remained averted.

"Not even for the greater good?" he muttered, a slight bite in his tone. He then looked at him through accusing green eyes.

So he knew of Albus's past.

But this was a discussion for another time.

"No, Harry," he replied softly. "Not even for the greater good."

Harry furrowed his eyebrows and appraised his honesty before he slowly rose to his feet. Suddenly, he summoned his wand to his hand before he turned to the battle with a steel gaze in his eyes. It was a look that was reminiscent to his past self that Albus's heart soared with joy. He watched with a sense of pride in his heart as Harry rushed towards the center of the room with his wand in his hand.

And Albus did not stop him.

" _Enough_!" he bellowed.

A blinding light emitted from his wand that disarmed both Order members and Death Eaters and sent them all crashing against the walls. The whole room merely looked at him in astonishment.

"Call off the others," he demanded, glaring at the Death Eaters. "We're done for the day."

It was only then did they notice the intimidating figure of Albus Dumbledore standing behind him. They regarded him with both surprise and disdain before they collectively vanished on the spot. And Albus let them go . . . For Harry's sake. If Voldemort suspected Harry of disloyalty, he would have his head on a silver plate.

Albus, in turn, nodded at the questioning eyes of the Order members. They offered Harry confused but admiring glances before they, too, disappeared on the spot. Soon, the room emptied until only Harry and Albus were standing in the room.

Ah, how he wished to confess everything right then and there. To empty his burden, to implore for his forgiveness. But before either of them could say a word, a rustle at the entrance that was previously barricaded, but that Albus had broken through, caught their attention. To Albus's dread, the Ministry members had returned to their workplaces. Their eyes were fixed, not on Albus, but on the figure behind him. And one thought crossed Albus's mind . . .

Not _Harry._

Quickly, as the muttering of the Ministry members amplified, Albus stepped in front of Harry. As if shielding him from the horrified looks of the Ministry members. With a sudden sense of dread, he realized rather reluctantly what he had to do. He would have to trust Harry to return on his accord. He confirmed this when the crowd suddenly parted and the Minister of Magic was let through. He flinched back violently when he looked at Harry's bloody form.

"Good God, Albus," he breathed in astonishment. Suddenly, however, his features fused into an angry snarl as he snapped. "What in the bloody blazes is Harry Potter doing in the center of _my_ Ministry?"

But the name echoed across the crowd, each marveling the return of the famous Harry Potter.

" _Your_ Ministry, Rufus?" Albus asked calmly. "I seem to recall that the Ministry houses more than one individual. Not only of that of it's Minister, but also of countless of witches and wizards that can also contribute to discussion," he then lowered his eyes so that he was looking at him from above his spectacles. "But perhaps, of course, I am mistaken." His eyes twinkled at the ripple of unsettlement that he had caused in the crowd.

But the Minister looked as if his eyes would pop out of his head.

"Now see here, Dumbledore," he growled, stepping forward and glancing warily at Harry. "The previous Ministers might have approved of your funny business, but I won't have it. To defend Harry Potter when you know of his actions, you know of his crimes, why, is a crime in itself. He is a threat to established order and should be arrested at once. The Courts will decide if he should be administered the Dementor's Kiss."

At the last statement, Albus abruptly lost his humor and stepped forward, his eyes flashing dangerously. Intimidated, the Minister stepped back.

"Harry is no more of a criminal than you and I, Rufus," he stated firmly. The Minister blanched. "What crimes he has committed are the direct influence of Lord Voldemort," many gasps emerged from the room. "It is an influence beyond his control, beyond his will. He should not be held accountable for his actions."

"Not be held accountable?" the Minister sputtered. "Have your wits left you, Albus? What will you inform his victims? Or their families that he has torn apart? Where is their justice, Albus? Is your faith in Harry Potter stronger than your compassion for his victims?"

"Ah, Rufus," he shook his head wearily. He did not want to turn around to look at Harry's expression. He could only guess what he was thinking. "You have narrowed my field of view to fit your own. I will not choose between one or the other, for I have both faith in Harry Potter and compassion for his victims. But these victims should place the blame where the blame lies. And it is not on Harry Potter. But rather, on Lord Voldemort."

Then he stepped forward again in emphasis.

"Do not allow your fear to cloud your judgements, Rufus! By arresting Harry Potter, you are losing a vital ally in the war. He is not your enemy and never was. He has defied, and continues to defy, Voldemort on countless occasions. See reason, Rufus. See matters beyond the surface and not by what they appear to be."

But the Minister continued to shake his head profusely.

"You're mad, Dumbledore. Utterly mad," he muttered, his eyes bulging. Abruptly, he turned around to bellow into the crowd. "Aurors! Aurors! Arrest this man at once!" he yelled, pointing to Harry.

With a heavy heart, Albus turned to Harry, whose turbulence etched across his features. He looked worn and tired. A heavy burden had settled on his shoulders. Albus wished that he could return him to his friends, perhaps have Madam Pomfrey heal his injuries, or even give him a comfortable bed, one that he had not seen in ten years, to sleep on. But alas, as he met his gaze, he knew that he had to send him back to Voldemort.

And the worst part was, he didn't know if he would ever meet him again.

"You must leave, Harry," he stated softly as the rushed footsteps of the Aurors approached them.

With a hint of hesitance, he nodded and stepped back into the shadows. As the Aurors neared him, he vanished at the spot. Albus mourned his absence as he, too, activated his Portkey. As he returned, he wondered with a sense of dread in his heart if all of the Order members were well and alive.

* * *

 **A/N** : Not the easiest chapter to write, but definitely enjoyed writing it. I love Dumbledore in the books. A lot of times, writers often miss that he's a really emotional person, even though he's always really clever and witty. Anywho . . .

Lemon Drop?

Reviews appreciated.


	8. Chapter 8: Grimmauld's Place

Groggily, Ron Weasley cursed under his breath as the pale light of the morning pierced his eyes. He tried to lift his hand to cover his eyes but found that something was holding his hand back. A tiny, feather-like hand tightened around his. Ron blinked open his eyes and groaned as he attempted to sit up. To his surprise, he identified the owner of the hand.

"Daddy!" Rosè exclaimed jovially. "You're awake!"

She scrambled over the bed and tripped sloppily over the blankets. But Ron caught her with a bemused look about him.

"Rosè," he breathed, astonished. "Blimey, Rosè. Are you trying to give your old man a heart failure? Don't scare me like that again."

But she drew back and gave him a stern stare.

"Scare you?" she said fiercely, looking eerily like Hermione that Ron had to double back and remember who he was with. " _I_ didn't scare you. You scared _me_! And Mummy, too!" She pointed her finger at the slumped figure beside Ron's feet.

Ron's heart melted at the sight of Hermione hunchbacked over Ron's bed, sound asleep. It looked as if she had been sitting and waiting for Ron to wake up when she had fallen asleep. Glancing around, he found himself in a rather warm room with several large and fat armchairs near the back, several beds sprawled in a row along the length of the room, long and thin windows that hung ajar near the beds. It resembled the hospital wing in Hogwarts but without the high ceilings. But it served the same purpose. It was intended for Order members who would return from their missions injured and in dire need of attention. Dumbledore had gotten Madam Pomfrey to work here as well, promising her a raise.

Ron turned to his daughter.

"How long have I been here?" he asked. Rosè lifted three fingers to indicate the answer. He then looked around with a frown. "And where's Hugo?"

"With Gran," Rosè said simply, as if it was the most obvious in the world. "Mummy didn't want him waking you, so she gave him to Gran," she scrunched her face. "He _was_ being rather naughty, mind you. Always crying and all."

Ron rose an eyebrow.

" _He_ was?" he tugged one of her curled red locks good-naturedly, "What about you, miss know-it-all?" she giggled and bat his hand away. "What have _you_ been doing this whole time? Polishing your books?"

"No," she said, affronted. "I just finished reading the tales of Beetle the Bard. Well," she shifted in embarrassment. "Mum read it to me. Did you know there's a stone that brings people back to life?"

"Oh, someone cast a Silencing charm on her already," said a tired voice from the bed beside Ron. Ron startled. He whipped around to find Fred sprawled along the bed, facing them. "My head can't take much more of this."

He winked.

"Uncle Fred," sighed Rosè.

"Fred," Ron breathed, pushing his covers aside and sitting at the edge of the bed. "What happened? Are you all right?"

"I never thought I'd live to see the day when you'd be concerned for my health, little brother," he replied, shifting to look at the ceiling.

"Fine," he said irritably. "Be that way. See if I care."

Fred grinned.

"Ah, there's the silver lining. There's the brother I know."

But Ron noticed something strange at the way that he grinned. Unlike before, his grin seemed forced, which was unusual for the usually gregarious twins. But as soon as he opened his mouth to speak, Fred sat up and looked down at his feet with an uncharacteristically solemn expression.

"Ron," he said quietly. "There's something you should know."

Ron inferred the worst.

* * *

Groaning, Harry reached up to rub his forehead before squinting his eyes open. He was back in his dark and musty cell. After his duel in the Ministry, Harry had met Voldemort, whose smug features had nearly caused bile to form in his throat, before he had lurched back to the dungeons. Feeling as if an anchor was weighing him down, he had immediately collapsed atop the thin mattress of his bunk bed. He hadn't even bothered to tend to his injuries. The night had exhausted his energy.

But he had done it. He had gained Voldemort's loyalty.

For now.

Sighing, he rolled over to his non-injured side and stared blankly at the stained wall of his cell. The night had taken its toll on him. Physically, emotionally, mentally. Yet again, he had nearly taken a life. He couldn't help but feel a rush of gratitude towards Albus Dumbledore who had stopped his curse. He had nearly taken a life – _two_ , in fact! Of Weasley and his wife. He had nearly done it. He had cast the curse. He had nearly committed yet another murder. He had nearly torn apart yet another family.

Though he disliked the Minister, he couldn't help but feel that there was some validity behind his words yesterday. He _was_ a murderer. The Wizarding World had every right to fear him. Had every right to lock him away. There was no knowing when he would snap. Hell, even _he_ didn't know. Could they take the risk? Could they risk the safety of their families and children for his own sake? Could they trust him enough to re-assimilate him back with society knowing that he was capable of such savagery?

No. It was better this way.

The fact that he had allowed himself to commit such savage acts was the reason why he did not protest against Voldemort's treatment of him. He would allow him to torture him, to damage him, to draw blood without complaint. He deserved the punishment. He deserved the pain. In a way, he sought repentance through pain. Sought forgiveness through suffering . . . It was a testament to every crime that he had committed. To every family that he had torn apart. To every victim that had begged him to reconsider his actions.

Sighing, he carefully heaved himself up, wary of his injuries. His limps ached and his head throbbed like the immutable beating of a drum. He blinked away dark patches from his eyes before he reached next to the pillow for his glasses. He tried to ignore the hoarse breathing of the Dementors around his cell as he began to tend to his injuries. He was accustomed to working in the dark. Years of tending to the prisoners, as well as himself, had improved his skills.

He was completely in his element.

Carefully, he detached his torn cloak from where the fabric had stuck to his wounds. He wrenched the pouch away from his neck and rummaged through it for the Dittany. Laying down all the necessary tools, he stumbled to his feet, removed his robes and cloak, and tossed them onto the bed. He then assessed his body and cleared away all of the dried blood. Though he had officially joined the highest ranks of Death Eaters, Voldemort had still not trusted him with a wand. But Harry didn't care. The spells that he regularly employed didn't need a wand. He had learned to live without one.

Sitting back down on the bed, he corked open the bottle of Dittany and gently poured drops over the wounds on his arms. He hissed as the icy droplets pierced his skin. He then severed a small section of his cloak and tilted the vial onto it before lifting it to his head. He had to admit, that Weasley had given him a quite run for his money. He was quite skilled at dueling. He had caught Harry off guard with his quick reflexes.

But was it true? Was he really an Auror? But his skills far surpassed the Aurors that Harry had dueled. Perhaps he was of higher ranking than the rest? But if that were true . . . If Weasley was really a skilled Auror . . . Why had he ignored his letters? Why hadn't he stopped Harry from committing his crimes? Why had he not reacted to the warnings that Harry had sent?

But as Harry removed his shirt to tend to his side, he concluded that Weasley was just as bad as the rest. Just as corrupted as the rest. He was probably in on the whole scheme in the first place, Harry thought bitterly. But deep down, did he really believe that? If Harry was honest with himself, he would almost admit that he didn't. In fact, ever since last night, he honestly didn't know what to believe.

His encounter with Weasley had left him frustrated and confused. The way that Weasley had taunted him . . . The way he had addressed him . . . It was almost as if he knew Harry before. As if he had once been close to Harry. If Harry was honest with himself, he had detected a foreign emotion in the other man. . .

Something like betrayal, was it?

But that didn't make sense to Harry. He had never in his life seen the man. In fact, he rarely conversed with anyone except for the prisoners. To Death Eaters, he only offered curt answers. Whatever they or Voldemort asked, he answered. But he never engaged in intimate discussions. He never elaborated beyond what was required of him. Moreover, he could not remember ever having friends. The only people he stayed in touch with were Kreacher and Dudley and his daughter. That's it.

Feeling a sense of frustration cross him, he had nearly cursed the entire Ministry crowd yesterday for ruining his chance to speak to Dumbledore. He needed answers. And Dumbledore, despite all the bitterness Harry felt towards the man, was the only one that could answer him.

He wanted to know why there were parts of his life that he could not remember. Not just a part of it, but a whole chunk of it – years, in fact. He suspected that Voldemort had erased his memories. But even then . . . Why? Why had he felt it necessary? He knew why he was keeping him alive. But he didn't know how the Hell he got here in the first place. What exactly had happened during his teenage years? And why did the Order members seem so reactive and devestated at the sight of him yesterday?

Did they know him personally?

But it was over now. Fate was a cruel mistress. He could no longer speak to Dumbledore. He had long wished to contact the man, to speak to him face to face. But he had never learned of his location. The places that he visited were heavily guarded – the Ministry, Hogwarts, the Order Headquarters. Harry could not enter these places. Not after the entire Wizarding World had learned of his actions . . . He was once famous for being a hero. Now, he was famous for being a criminal.

He had tried many times to contact him via an owl. But the owls that he sent had a habit of leaving and never returning. Thus, he had stopped. Harry had always suspected that they had died along the way. But if so, who was killing them? And how did they know when exactly Harry sent a letter? Exhaling in frustration, he felt his head throb at the amount of questions that he had unanswered.

But Dumbledore . . . Dumbledore had broken the enchantment. He had freed Harry from Voldemort's clutches yesterday in the Ministry. He had confronted him. Had reassured him. Had even admitted that he had faith in Harry. But why . . .? After all that he had done, the old man had faith in him? He had found goodness in him? But surely he had doubted Harry? Surely he had heard of all the crimes that Harry had committed? Was yesterday all an act? A ruse to get Harry to fulfill what was expected of him by the Prophecy?

But more importantly, was every question meant to be answered? Was it better for Harry if he didn't find the answers? Perhaps . . . for the greater good?

No, Harry thought firmly. He needed answers.

With a hint of hesitance, he laid his hand over his side and braced himself for the pain. He had received a nasty fracture in his ribs.

Grimacing slightly, he muttered.

" _Ferula_."

He gasped when he felt the bones repair themselves. Closing his eyes, he breathed shakily for a moment before he displaced the potions back into the pouch. He then severed his cloak slightly, elongated the strip, and used it to bandage around his waist. Satisfied with the job, he replaced his shirt and his robes and stood up, stretching and yawning. Despite the lingering effects of his injuries, he felt quite refreshed.

Glancing around the room, he stood still in the center for a long moment. He listened for the sounds of Death Eaters in the dungeons, but none came. Then again, the fact that the cell was barricaded from all sides could have muffled the sounds. But Death Eaters were known to be very loud and boisterous around the prisoners.

When Harry didn't hear anything, he hissed into the vacant room.

"Kreacher."

Suddenly, a tiny, decrepit house elf appeared, looking quite disheveled and irritated by the short notice. He had been in the midst of preparing dinner for the temporary residents of Grimmauld's Place when his Master had called him.

"Master Harry," the elf bowed humbly before his Master. Harry merely offered an exasperated look at the elf's strict etiquette.

But like always, he chose to ignore it.

"All right, Kreacher?" he asked. After he had gained the elf's loyalty, he had taken quite a liking to the house elf. "How are the prisoners fairing?"

Kreacher fidgeted with the hand towel in his hand.

"Kreacher has been healing their wounds, Master Harry," he croaked, his eyes squinted, "Kreacher has been helping them change and inviting them to eat, but the prisoners have been most ungrateful to Kreacher. The prisoners will not eat, Master Harry. The prisoners inform Kreacher that they cannot stomach it. But Kreacher has been working night and day to prepare them food," he shook his head, causing the pointed hat on his head to shift. "Ungrateful they are, Master Harry. Most ungrateful."

Harry knew how sensitive the elf got when guests rejected his food. He hurried to settle his worries.

"They need more time, Kreacher," he reassured. He lifted his pouch from the bed and hung it around his neck. "Some of them have been hurt badly. They need more time to heal before they can start eating."

Harry could hear the words "prisoners" and "bad manners" as Kreacher grumbled under his breath. But he ignored it. Speaking of prisoners, he had one more task to accomplish before he returned to Grimmauld's Place.

He turned to Kreacher.

"Think you could get me to the other side?"

Kreacher nodded.

He held out a wrinkly hand to Harry. As soon as their fingers met, they reappeared at the entrance of the cell. Harry glanced around quickly for Death Eaters before they ventured deeper into the dungeons. Their footsteps echoed across the corridor. They could hear soft droplets of water descending from the walls. The walls were stained green with mold. The corridors reeked with the smell of blood, feces, and decomposed corpses. Those that doubted the existence of Hell and stumbled across this dungeon would instantly become believers.

Such was the horrors of this dungeon.

Like always, Harry felt the boiling feeling steam his insides as hot anger coursed through him. It was hard to believe that the ones that caused all this were humans. Over the years, Harry had tried hard to help the prisoners, to heal their injuries. But try as he may, he still had to watch as some fell victim. Some became insane at the horrors that they had seen. Some had been driven insane by extended exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. Some had died of their own injuries. Some killed by the Killing Curse. Some – even children! – had died in his arms. And he dreamt about them. He risked his own mental health to try to save them. And the consequence . . .?

He never slept the night.

He had long since considered breaking them out. Maybe return them to their homes. But even if he did, he knew that others will replace them. Voldemort would perhaps kill him for his disloyalty. There would be no one here to help the incoming prisoners. No. He had keep himself alive. It was better to break them out discreetly than all at once.

For the greater good.

Was that selfish, though? Risking the sanity and possible deaths of a select few for the masses? Was he no better than Voldemort for thinking this? He assumed that Voldemort would kill him if he broke the prisoners out. Was he right in his assumptions? If he wasn't, then in a way, he was basically condoning the suffering of the prisoners by keeping them here. He knew that Voldemort only kept prisoners that could either supply him with information or perhaps convince them to join his ranks.

The rest were disposed of immediately.

"Is Master Harry bringing more prisoners, Sir?" Kreacher asked.

Harry startled.

"Yeah," he muttered, still lost in thought. "Only, this one is a bit young. Be mindful around her, will you? She's a bit fragile."

"A young girl perhaps, Master Harry?" croaked the elf, his grey eyes wide, "A young girl in the dark dungeons, Sir? Kreacher knows that the young ones dislike the dark. Oh, yes. Kreacher has seen it in young Master Regulus," his eyes darkened. "And young Master Sirius. Kreacher has never seen young ones that like the dark, Master Harry."

"Well," he sighed wearily. "she's not exactly in here because she likes to be. I doubt anyone is."

In fact, this girl was perhaps the youngest girl that Harry had ever seen in the dungeons. She was hardly nine years and had already seen things that no other nine year old should ever see. Unlike the other children that survived, this one was a bit unusual. She did not come from a Muggle background. In fact, her parents were pure-bloods. But like the Weasleys, they were blood-traitors, which the Death Eaters considered to be worse than Muggle-borns. Naturally, her parents were killed, and she was left orphaned. The Death Eaters had kept her alive to condition her to become a Death Eater.

Which was why Harry was breaking her out.

He had seen the girl. She was rather weak and petite. Though she had seen horrors, there was still a hint of innocence and purity within her. He knew first-hand, it took a complete shut-down of any empathy and emotions to be able to commit a crime.

Shaking his head out of his thoughts, he found her cell at the end of the corridor. Thankfully, no Dementors lingered here.

Lifting his hand to the lock, he muttered.

" _Alohomora_."

He heard the soft click of the lock and gestured Kreacher to keep watch outside. He then entered the cell only to find a tiny figure curled along the corner of the walls – sound asleep. Curled black locks curtained her face, some fluttering with every breath. Her legs were tucked against her chest, her body curled into a ball, shivering against the cold. With winter approaching, the dungeons had vastly dropped in temperature. Harry noticed tear streaks down her face. She had clearly been crying.

Debating whether to wake her up or carry her, he decided the former. He approached her, knelt down, and shook her shoulders.

"Hey," he murmured, wary of startling her. "Freya. Come on, wake up. I'm getting you out of here."

She shifted. Rubbing her eyes, she squinted her hazel-green eyes open and blinked in confusion as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

"Harry?" her voice broke slightly. She was not quite awake yet.

He nodded.

"That's right," he held out a hand and helped her to her feet. "Now come on. We're leaving."

But she looked even more bemused.

"Where are we going?" she asked curiously. As she stared dazedly around the room, she squeaked at the house elf and hid behind Harry. "What is that, Harry?" she breathed, her eyes wide with fear.

Harry resisted the urge to smile.

"It's just a house elf," he reassured, adjusting his glasses, "He's here to help, he won't hurt you. Isn't that right, Kreacher?"

"Of course, Master Harry."

"Master?" she breathed, emerging from behind Harry.

Harry grimaced.

"I'll explain later," he said hastily. "We've got to get you out of here," he turned to cast an Illusionment charm on the room before beckoning Kreacher into the cell. He shut the door to the cell and held out a hand to the girl. "Listen, Freya. What happens next . . It's going to feel strange. You're going to feel a bit out of breath, but you'll be fine. Trust me."

Taking his hand, she nodded.

"Right," he addressed Kreacher. "Let's go."

Collectively, they Apparated and landed at the doorstep of Grimmauld's Place. Ever since Harry had learned of his inheritance, he had taken it upon himself to renovate the ghastly home into a more warm and inviting one. With the help of Kreacher, the job proved to be a welcome distraction from the dreary dungeons that he had lived in for so long. For seven years, he had used the home as a crossroad for prisoners that he helped to escape. He kept them here until he found new homes for them, preferably in other countries where they would feel less threatened by the Dark Lord. But he, himself, never stayed there for too long in case Voldemort called on him. Instead, he trusted Kreacher to care for them.

"What is this place?" Freya breathed.

She was entranced by the floating candles and the night sky ceiling. She approached a side table and gasped when the lamp that she touched changed colors.

"Your new home," Harry said simply, shrugging off his cloak.

He offered it to the outstretched peg, which snapped shut and held it in place. Freya, if possible, looked as if she would faint.

But Harry studied her from behind his glasses.

"Didn't you say your parents were wizards?" he asked, wondering why she looked so awestruck. "You must've seen these things before, haven't you?"

She shook her head.

"My parents were poor," she explained, her mood darkening, "My father worked in the Muggle Department. He wasn't liked very much. And neither was my mother. She worked for the Wizengamot and sent loads of Death Eaters to Askaban," her eyes glistened. "I dunno why I was surprised when they took us. I s'pose I should've expected what happened . . ."

With a shaky breath, she wiped several tears from her eyes. With a heavy heart, Harry met Kreacher's solemn eyes and laid a hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Come on," he said quietly, leading her to the left of the corridor where the kitchen was. "You must be starving."

As soon as they entered, Harry, once again, felt quite proud to have gained the house elf's loyalty. Kreacher had gathered all of the prisoners in the kitchen. He had even resumed his work in the kitchen while he responded to Harry's call. The wooden ladles were still stirring the pots, the meat heated and smoked without intervention, the knives sliced the fruits and vegetables, and the plates arranged themselves on their own. If there was one thing that had startled Harry, it was the house elf's extraordinary ability to be able to do magic without actively being present. As the three entered, however, the other three residents looked up and smiled warmly, particularly in Harry's direction.

"Well, look what we have here," greeted the eldest man – Barnabas, his grin reaching his beetle eyes. "It's Harry Potter!"

Harry grimaced.

"Right," he said irritably as Freya hid behind him. "Because I needed the attention."

All three grinned.

"Be careful what you ask for," teased the woman – Hadley, who gave him an appraising look. "You've grown thinner since the last time we saw you. Have you been watching over yourself?"

Harry didn't know how she always noticed such minute details. In fact, she always seemed to remind him that he wasn't eating well or sleeping well. He often lost track of how many days he went without eating or sleeping. His guilt and his thoughts often prevented him from keeping in touch with reality.

Of course, the constant reminder was welcome.

"Yeah," he lied, struggling to avoid her narrowed eyes. "Not as much as before, but I'll live."

He shrugged.

But he assessed them all with a fastidious gaze. Though their injuries had been healed, there were still faint scars and bandages around their bodies. There was also hints of exhaustion and guilt judging by the bags under their eyes.

It was clear to Harry that they were not sleeping well.

The dark-haired woman, Hadley, looked like she had shrunk by the way she was holding herself. She was hunch-backed over the table, her arms were crossed over her chest in a rather defensive posture. The other man, Ciceron, still had half of his face covered with blotches and boils that didn't seem to have a cure. Harry suspected that he had been hit with a rather nasty Dark curse. Barnabas had nasty scars flitted all over his body – remnants of almost becoming food for the werewolves. To his relief, though, he was never bitten.

Despite these predicaments, Harry was rather impressed by their recovery.

"How are you all?" he asked, watching Kreacher levitate the plates to the proper guest, "Kreacher's told me that you haven't been accepting his food," he said, trying not to sound too stern. "You haven't been starving yourselves, have you?"

They looked guilty.

Kreacher interjected with a rather smug tone. "Oh yes. They have been ungrateful to Kreacher. Most ungrate –"

"Not ungrateful," chimed Hadley, throwing a resentful look at the elf, "No. No. Never ungrateful. We appreciate everything he's done for us. Really, we have. It's just . . ." she sighed heavily. "With everything that's happened . . . It's just hard to stomach the food, that's all."

"It's hard to feel hungry when you're constantly reminded of the past," said Ciceron bitterly, stabbing angrily at his salad. "I thought escaping from prison would help you feel free. Free from bars. Free from restrictions. Free from Hell . . . But it only made me feel as if I was back behind bars –"

"Ciceron," hissed Hadley, glancing towards Harry.

"Oh, don't misunderstand me," he added hastily, his blue eyes racked with guilt, "I appreciate everything you've done for us, Harry. Honestly. Words can't describe how fortunate we are to have you here," as if ashamed, he ducked his head over his plate. "It just . . . doesn't change how I feel on the inside. What with my family gone . . . I mean, what's left for me besides an empty house and my own beating heart? All I wanted from the world was meaning – purpose. But I've been robbed of even the simplest of things."

A tense silence soon followed after each became absorbed in their thoughts. Harry didn't know what to say. He had never been good at comforting people. Even though he had saved many lives, he had never gotten better at it. But finally, as the silence grew thicker, Barnabas leaned forward, his beetle-like eyes warm with wisdom.

"Whether it is holding the hand of the orphan or offering sweets to a child," he said quietly. "There is purpose in the simplest of things."

Ciceron looked up and smiled, his eyes glassy. He stood up abruptly and excused himself from the table. It seemed Barnabas's short words had touched him deeply and perhaps even convinced him. But the new guest made her presence known.

"Is he all right?" whispered Freya, her eyes fixed on the door.

Harry startled.

Even while she had been clutching his robes, he had almost forgotten that she was here.

"Oh, hello," Hadley blinked, her eyes wide with curiosity. She sat up, looking more confident. But the girl ducked again behind Harry. "And who is this young beauty?"

She then looked at Harry expectedly, her expression borderline smug. Harry almost felt outraged at the look that she was giving him. Try as he may to convince them that he did not have any secret relationships, they never believed him.

"She's not mine," Harry said firmly, shooting a glare at the woman. Hadley, in turn, winked slyly. "I found her in the dungeons. The Death Eaters were trying to convince her to join them. I couldn't just leave her in there, so I got her out."

"Good on you, Harry," nodded Barnabas, his eyes darkening as he stared the girl. "Why, she can't be more than nine years. Poor girl. I can't imagine the horrors that she's seen. The elders like myself can hardly stand to see such things, let alone a child," he shook his head. "Good God, what has the world come to?"

But Hadley stood up, crossed the table, and knelt down before the girl. Freya simply buried her head further into Harry's robes.

"Why, you're a beauty, you are," she gushed, now in full-mother mode. "Oh, don't be shy, dear. We're all friends here. We won't dare to hurt you," the girl peeked her eyes out, relaxing when Hadley gave her a warm smile. "Do you have a name?"

She whispered.

"Freya."

"Freya," hummed the woman, her warm disposition prompting the girl out. "Quite the name, that is. Very unique. It's from the old Norse, isn't it? Another name for –"

"Lady," she smiled, now fully emerged. "My mother named me."

"Of course she did," laughed Hadley, holding out a hand to the girl. "She must've been a very bright person. Why don't you tell me all about her while we eat, shall we? Goodness knows how much you need it."

As the three conversed, however, Harry stepped over and leaned against the pantry. His eyes flitted across the room, his mind racked with thought. He was amazed by how quickly Hadley had drawn the girl out. She was now chatting animatedly with Barnabas and Hadley. The two had noticeably brightened since Harry had stepped in. It was good to have people who were experienced with children, a skill that he unfortunately lacked.

But as much as he enjoyed their presence, he still had to find them a new home. He needed to send them into hiding. Though Grimmauld's place was protected by the Fidelius Charm, it was still dangerous to live here mostly because he, himself, was the Secret Keeper. If Voldemort ever tried to force himself into his memories again, he would be done for. The spell would be broken, and he would gain entry.

No. He needed to send them off. But he was still in the midst of looking for options.

Speaking of Voldemort, his head throbbed from the pain in his scar. It often settled to dull ache when he was distracted. But when he focused on the pain, it was almost unbearable. Rubbing his forehead, he struggled to quench the pain.

"Will you not eat, Master Harry?" croaked a voice.

Harry jolted and looked down at the house elf.

"Thanks, Kreacher," he said guiltily, knowing that he was sounding like a hypocrite. But he couldn't help the feeling of nausea that had washed over him. "But I'm not hungry at the mome –"

Suddenly, a searing pain crossed his arm. Hissing, he laid his hand over it. The whole room looked at him in concern.

He cursed.

Voldemort wanted him.

"I've got to go," he stated bluntly before he looked up. "I don't know when I'll be back. But watch yourselves, will you? And try not to step outside," he turned to Kreacher. "Let's go, Kreacher."

Hurriedly, he rushed to the entrance, found his cloak, and strapped it over his shoulders. He threw a final glance at the home, sure that he wasn't missing anything. Then, he took Kreacher's hand and disappeared on the spot. As soon as they reappeared inside of his cell, Harry quickly beckoned Kreacher to leave before the wall of his cell sank beneath the floor. As soon as Kreacher left, Harry elicited a sigh of relief at the fact that they weren't caught. He turned to greet the dark-clothed figure standing at the opposite side of his cell.

"Potter," nodded the Death Eater, his voice deep beneath his mask. "The Dark Lord requests your presence."

"Good to know that my presence is desired," he said, struggling to control his temper. "If we weren't always at each other's throats, I'd almost be touched."

The masked man hissed under his hood.

"Your disrespect is appalling, Potter," he growled. "You should be grateful by the fact that the Dark Lord kept you alive all these years. If I were the Dark Lord, I'd have you choking on your tongue years ago," his lip curled. "Then you can join your filthy Mudblood mother in the dirt. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

"Do it, then," he goaded, his eyes flashing. "You'll be joining us in the dirt soon enough. We'll see who's the better man, then."

The man laughed.

"Do you think it matters what happens after death, Potter? Do you think it matters what happens when our consciousness fades? Do you think that we will have any recollections of our actions when we are in this state? No, Potter. A person without consciousness sees nothing – remembers nothing. He is nothing more than a hollow shell. Nothing but a tool to propel time forward. That's all we ever were. Our actions, our intentions, our moral boundaries are negligible when we are unconscious. Do you honestly think there is purpose beyond the grave?"

"I do," Harry said firmly.

"Then, you are weak, Potter," hissed the man, wrenching his mask away to reveal his face. Harry recognized him as Rodolphus Lestrange, "To recognise purpose in life is what creates these restrictions. What prevents knowledge. What prevents you from unlocking you true potential, both physically and mentally. These restrictions, these moral boundaries work against us. After all, how do you learn the effects of the Cruciatus Curse if the spell could not be cast in the first place? How do you discover that a bezoar cures poisons if the poison was not applied in the first place? You cannot generate knowledge and power through restrictions – two things which are essential to survival."

"I didn't think I needed knowledge and power to survive, Lestrange," Harry replied bitterly. "In case you haven't noticed, but I'm still alive. It's pointless to go looking for something you'll never achieve. There's always going to be someone that's better than you. Someone with more knowledge and power than you'll ever have. Take Dumbledore as an example. He's got more experience than all the Death Eaters combined. But he never used it to his advantage. He never used it to hurt others. And that makes all the difference."

Lestrange's eyes flashed at the name.

"I see," he said quietly, his eyes glaring. "Ten years, and you haven't changed a hair about you, Potter. Still Dumbledore's man through and through?"

"That's right," he said boldly.

They stood there, glaring fiercely at each other. The only thing that kept them from reaching for each other's throats were the bars of the cells. Even the desperate cries of the prisoners had mitigated by the tension that followed within the dungeons. Suddenly, however, Lestrange adjusted his cloak and reached up to unlock the cell door.

"Don't get any ideas, Potter," he spat, his wand drawn as if expecting Harry to retaliate. Harry looked annoyed at best and stepped back into the shadows. "We mustn't keep the Dark Lord waiting."

Harry stepped out of the cell and shot the man a dirty glance.

"Don't want to let him know that I've been giving you funny ideas?"

Lestrange chuckled.

"Cheek, Potter," he sneered, his grey eyes gleaming. "But you'll have to try harder than that to change my mind. Changing my views is no easy task. It is like finding water in the deserts. It is nearly impossible to challenge me," he shut the door to the cell. "As you'll find out soon enough."

"I'll hold you to that," he muttered. "I'll find my way through for myself, thanks."

"If you insist."

And he stalked off. His footsteps thundered across the dungeon, his chest boiling with rage. Why did they insist on sending Lestrange for him all the time? If there were any Death Eaters that Harry hated the most, it was the Lestranges. The whole lot of them. Bellatrix and her good-for-nothing husband. Bellatrix, because of the reminder of what had happened to his godfather, Sirius Black. And Rodolphus, for his long-winded explanations and – Harry loathed to admit – his impeccable wisdom.

He was not wrong to state that power and knowledge were essential to the growth of man. But too much of something – too much of anything! – was just bad. Knowledge and power without boundaries was what Voldemort had done. And what a monster he had become. He was willing to hurt people in order to achieve his strengths.

Then, there was Dumbledore . . .

Though Harry had defended him earlier, he hadn't ignored what Dumbledore had done early in his life. He knew about Dumbledore's story. He knew what goals he had concocted with Grindewald. He knew of Dumbledore's desire to rule over the Muggles. He knew what happened to Dumbledore's sister. Harry had resented him for it. Had even given the man a cold shoulder. Had even once vowed to never speak to the man as an ally again.

But he couldn't do it. Despite everything he had done before, despite all the controversial ideas that he had before, Dumbledore remained the last bit of hope that Harry had left in the world. Despite all of his mistakes, Dumbledore was still helping to fight Voldemort. To fight corruption. To help others. To help even Harry himself.

What right did Harry have to judge the man by his mistakes when Harry, himself, had done actions worse than him? He often forgot that Dumbledore was just as human as the rest. That he made mistakes like the rest, which was ironic considering his unrivaled power. Harry had decided to limit his judgement until he could speak to the man.

To his surprise, Harry discovered that his feet had led him to Voldemort's throne room without his conscious effort. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed his surroundings. Breathing deeply, he lifted his fist and rapped on the door. The corridor was darker than usual. The sun had sunken hours ago. It was almost two in the morning. Irresistibly, Harry wondered if Voldemort ever even slept. He always seemed to call him at such an ungodly hour.

"Enter," hissed a voice from inside.

Harry turned the knob and entered the room with an annoyed look about him. He never cared much when Voldemort requested him. He was either there for Voldemort to vent his frustration out on him or Voldemort suspected him of trouble (which was almost always the case).

"You sent for me," Harry said stiffly.

But he frowned as the door slammed closed behind him. To his surprise, the Dark Lord was not in his usual sitting position at his throne. Instead, he stood tall, his wand outstretched, his back facing Harry. Harry tried to crane his neck to see what Voldemort was aiming at, but a warning hiss from Nagini held him back.

He glared at the snake before Voldemort spoke.

"Is punctuality your weakness, Harry?" he asked calmly, his voice barely above a whisper. Harry heard quiet whimpers and a soft echo of his name, and he grew ever more curious. "Where are your manners? Has it ever occurred to you that it's rude to keep your guests waiting?"

Voldemort made no move to show Harry what "guest" he was talking about. Harry, however, stood silently and considered his words before he chose to speak. Over the years, Harry had learned to respond curtly and concisely. If he elaborated beyond what was necessary, he would risk slipping some information that he never wanted Voldemort to know, which Voldemort incidentally sought from him.

"Lestrange held me back," Harry said carefully, deciding the truth was the best option. "We got in a bit of a row. I couldn't ditch him in time."

But Voldemort did not shift.

"Is that right?" he asked softly, his bony fingers twirling his wand. Something – a person! Harry realized dreadfully – was breathing heavily and repeating Harry's name over and over. Harry felt his own heart racing. Did Voldemort find out about Grimmauld's Place? About Freya? About Kreacher? "Tell me, Harry. Are your needs more important than mine?"

Harry scowled.

"No."

"Your time more important than mine?"

"No."

"Your petty quarrels more important than mine?"

"I didn't know you found your quarrels petty, Riddle."

Stiff silence.

The room dropped several degrees as Voldemort turned to face Harry. The two stood, their magic radiating from their forms, fumed by their hatred towards each other. Harry glared at the man, his green eyes narrowed – daring the other man to hurt him. He didn't even bother to look at the figure on the ground. He kept his eyes fixed on the cold red eyes of Lord Voldemort.

"You haven't lost your touch," Voldemort breathed quietly. "Still as unruly as always. When will you learn, Harry? Perhaps I ought to hire a leash to tame you. After all, what is the difference between you and a vile, feral animal?"

"Funny, you'd think a leash would be a bit Muggle for someone like you."

"Would you prefer a Full Body-Bind curse, instead?" he asked, his red eyes flashing. "Or perhaps something unique to yourself?" His voice was mocking, he was playing along.

Harry knew that he was treading on dangerous grounds.

But as the whisper of his name grew louder, Harry wisely bit his tongue. Who was the person behind Voldemort? It was a rather deep voice, which Harry concluded to be a male. He sounded rather old, perhaps elderly. But why was there so much emotion in his voice? If Harry was not wrong, the man sounded like he knew Harry. But who was he? Was he one of the prisoners that Harry helped to escape?

Voldemort must've noticed Harry's gaze because he spoke.

"Ah, so you found your wits, then," he stated coldly, his gaze drifting downwards where Harry's gaze was. "Your delay has caused much distress for our new guest, Harry. For every minute that he waited, his longing to see you _tortured_ him," Voldemort smirked. But a sense of dread crossed Harry, who had now completely shut up. "I must admit, he will be delighted to hear about your excuses after all the pain that you have caused him."

At last, Voldemort stepped aside and Harry's eyes widened at the sight of the crippled figure sprawled along the ruby rug beneath Voldemort's feet. There was no mistaking him. The flaming red hair, the second-hand chestnut robes, the cracked and lopsided glasses, the balding head. There was no doubt in Harry's mind who this man this. He had seen him in several articles in the Daily Prophet. He had even heard the mentions of this man around the Death Eaters.

It was Arthur Weasley.

* * *

A/N: Whew, what a chapter. I _hate_ how people always make Harry either too strong, with an absurd power level or devilishly handsome, stereotypical devil-may-care guy with a six-pack and he's so snotty and bratty and obnoxious. I hate it. Or the pathetically weak Harry that can't stand up for himself and is always crying and whining. It's pathetic. At least _try_ to keep him in character. Otherwise, you're just slapping the name on the character when you could just replace the name with literally anything.

He might not be physically strong or even skillfully strong in the books, but he has a sharp tongue and mind. He can hold himself on his own. He takes no crap from anyone. And he doesn't let anyone step over him.

Don't even get me started on the crap I hear about Dumbledore.

Sorry for my rant.


	9. Chapter 9: True Self

Harry stood with his eyes wide, his lips dry. He knew who this man was. He knew why Voldemort was keeping him here. Because of their blood traitor status, the Weasleys were known as fierce opponents to the dark. There was no doubt in his mind – nor in Voldemort's apparently – that the whole lot of them were involved in the Order. Because of this certainty, the Weasleys were the main targets . . . But to catch one of them was almost impossible because of their close association to Albus Dumbledore.

Voldemort smirked.

"Did you really think I would send my Death Eaters into the center of the Ministry without good reason?" he asked, his red eyes flashing in victory. This unnerved Harry, who felt slightly repulsed by the joy of the other man. "Did you think that your frivolous efforts to kill that fool Weasley was wasted last night?"

With his scar pricking uncomfortably, Harry heard a weak gasp from below. His gaze shifted and fixed onto the figure on the ground. The man looked weak and disheveled, his eyes drawing in and out of focus. He was looking at Harry as if he had never seen him before. Harry had never been good at reading expressions, but he could have sworn there was a sense of betrayal in the other man.

At the sign of movement, Harry lifted his eyes to observe Voldemort. The latter man flicked his wand lazily as a large oval-shaped basin floated from beneath the curtains next to the wall. Harry immediately recognized it as a Pensive. His heart racing, he watched as Voldemort poured his thoughts onto it before an image surfaced into the air.

It was the memories of last night. The memories of each and every person that Voldemort had seen yesterday in the Ministry.

Idiots! Harry thought.

Voldemort knew who they were now. He knew his enemies. He knew each of their faces. It was just a matter of figuring out where they were.

The Order was doomed.

"The Order are fools," whispered Voldemort, his eyes flickering across the memory. "They have drawn themselves into a pit in which they are too dense to climb out of it."

Though Harry hated the man with every fiber of his being, he couldn't help but agree with Voldemort now. But then, he remembered what had drawn them in there in the first place. They had heard blasts within the Ministry, hadn't they? And that had drawn them out from their Disillusionment charms. There were also reports of numerous deaths, mainly instigated by the two Lestranges. If he had been in their positions, wouldn't he have done the same? Wouldn't he have rushed into battle to save the innocents?

"You led them there," Harry breathed, his eyes glaring and accusing. "You tricked them, didn't you?"

Voldemort smirked.

"Must you think so ill of me?" he asked calmly. "It was of their own accord that they arrived there. Their faith in the greater good is what sealed their fate. After all, what else would have protected the Ministry workers from Lord Voldemort and his ruthless followers? But no matter. Now that I have the faces of them all, perhaps our guest here can humor us with their names."

"What are you going to do?" asked Harry. "Even if you know their names, you don't know where they are."

"If the thought comforts you . . ." he replied lazily, his eyes alight with victory. The reply unnerved Harry more than anything else that night.

Harry frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"I told you before," Voldemort replied calmly. "I have others ways of getting the information that I need."

Harry clenched his fists.

"We've been through this before," Harry said through gritted teeth. "I was never part of the Order, and you know it."

Voldmort was unfazed.

"And yet, who were the ones protecting you all these years?" he said, the contents of the Pensive reflecting in his eyes. "Who were the ones that kept you from my grasp for fifteen years? You have seen their faces, Harry, and yet you refused to oblige. You forced me to resort to, shall we say . . . desperate measures?"

"What sort of measures?"

Voldemort's lips curled.

"The type that will prevent you from seeking them, of course."

Harry furrowed his eyebrows.

"You think I'll join the Order? Why, so I can thank them for leaving me here with you?" Harry snapped.

"Where is your gratitude? What I offered you is simply what you deserve, Harry," said Voldemort mockingly. "After all, offering luxury to a criminal is simply unheard of in this day and age. It is imperative that I stick to traditions."

Harry felt himself trembling with fury. He hated that Voldemort knew exactly which subjects affected him the most. And he hated that he was using them against him. His chest was boiling. The talks from Lestrange, the frustrations for losing Dumbledore once again, his boiling hatred for Voldemort, all came to him like a pack of thirsty beasts. Something menacing inside of him snapped.

"You made me like this," he hissed.

"Don't pretend that you don't have a choice in the matter," Voldemort snapped. He proceeded to pace around Harry, who felt his grip on his temper weaken. "You could have fled last night in the Ministry. You had many opportunities to flee, but you refused to take it. Instead, you returned to me. I did not chain you to a leash and drag you here."

"– I wouldn't put it past you –"

"I did not forcibly grab you by the arm and Apparate with you. You are here on your own accord. You see, Harry, what I did to you was simply reveal your true self to _you_. I surfaced these unwelcomed thoughts. I have shown you the thoughts that were already inside of you. Thoughts that were already a part of you. The part of you that you struggled to deny."

"I've never thought –"

"Never thought of what? Never thought of killing others?" Voldemort asked softly, calmly circling around Harry. "Never thought of hurting others? You deny that these thoughts are a part of you? Because I beg to differ, Harry. As you stand before me now, I can see it in your eyes, as clear as night, all the reckless desire to kill me. All the reckless desire to hurt me. If I offered you a wand now, will you not seize that opportunity to pounce?" Here, he halted his pacing and stood before the younger man.

Harry looked at him dead in the eyes.

"You killed my parents," said Harry quietly, his fists clenched tightly at his sides.

"And what do you want in return? Vengeance?" Voldemort asked. "It's where it always starts, is it not? Do you think that there is no real purpose in hurting others? Do you think that perhaps, because I stand in opposition to Dumbledore, that I rule without purpose? No, Harry. I learned my lessons from the Muggles in the orphanage. I learned that the only way to rule is through fear and cruelty. Abandoned by my foolish parents, I took what cruelty I was taught and transmitted it to others . . . in the name of vengeance. You see, Harry. In many respects, we are very much similar to each other."

Harry snapped.

"I'm nothing like you!"

"Your actions speak otherwise."

"I'd never go to the lengths that you did," Harry lashed out harshly, as if struggling to convince himself of his own innocence. "I'd never hurt anyone who's done nothing to me."

Voldemort seemed unperturbed by the outburst.

"And yet, just last week, you killed Bethsuda Jones while asleep in her home," he replied lazily, faintly amused. "An innocent victim, no less. With no relations to you whatsoever. Even Arthur Weasley here can vouch for that. They work in the same Department, do they not?"

Harry clenched his teeth.

"You did that to me," he hissed. "You made me kill her."

"And yet, you were conscious of it," Voldemort stated calmly, his eyes quietly assessing the young man before him. "You did not try to stop me."

" – I _couldn't_ – "

"But you understand now. You see our similarities. The fact that you suffered, the fact that you wanted to inflict the same amount of pain that you experienced onto her, prevented you from banishing me. Your self-pity outweighed your determination to stop me. I simply gave you the strength to accomplish the task. I did not, however, coerce you into killing her," Voldemort lowered his voice. "There's no one to blame but yourself, Harry. She died of your own will."

Harry shook his head.

It was as though a dagger had sliced through the threads of his heart at the reminder of what he done to that woman. Not just that particular woman, but of countless victims before. To hear someone blame him, even if it was his greatest enemy, was an odd sort of comfort to him. He needed to be blamed. He _wanted_ someone to blame him. He had let Voldemort influence him. He had let himself become a killer. And he had done nothing to prevent it.

He deserved to be blamed.

Engrossed in his guilt, his gaze fixed blankly on the figure on the floor. He had been staring at the man without really seeing him. To his surprise, however, a determined pair of blue eyes met his green ones, and Harry felt a strange sort of strength wash over him.

"Given the choice," he muttered, his eyes boring into Voldemort's. "I'd never have killed her. I wouldn't have even known where she lived if you hadn't told me in the first place."

Voldemort smirked.

"But the fact of the matter is that you _did_. _You_ killed her," he emphasized, his eyes gleaming when a wave of pain crossed Harry. "It was _your_ wand that took her life. _Your_ Killing Curse that killed her. You are known by your remarkable ability to resist the most effective Imperius Curse. Why, then, did you not act against me? Why did you allow me to enter into your deepest thoughts? Perhaps you enjoy it, Harry. Perhaps you find satisfaction in seeing others suffer the same way that you did. But you simply feared the consequences of acting on it. You feared what was disliked. You feared being shunned."

"Shunned by what, exactly?" Harry snapped, feeling slightly resentful. "It's not as if I ever belonged anywhere."

But a quiet voice interrupted them.

"You belonged with us," Arthur said hoarsely, holding up his weight by his arms. Despite his weakness, he met Harry's eyes with a hard stare. "You belonged with the Weasleys," he stated firmly.

Harry froze. He stood and stared back at the man. He didn't understand what he had meant. Hadn't he heard the whole discussion between Harry and Voldemort? Didn't he know that Harry had tried to kill his son last night in the Ministry? That he had killed a woman in her home just last week? What exactly had he meant by his statement?

But Voldemort regarded him in amusement.

"Ah, so there is strength left in you," he hissed coldly. "Good. We will resume our _discussion_ on the morrow. Perhaps then you will oblige me with information."

Harry turned away as Voldemort cast one final Cruciatus Curse at the man. His forehead seared with pain. He wished that he could do something to help the man, but he couldn't. He was vastly outnumbered by the Death Eaters in the mansion. Hell, standing up to Voldemort himself was like taking on an entire army of Death Eaters. He was significantly out-skilled.

Instead, the man's screams echo in the silent night. His precarious existence illuminated by the faint light of the candles above him. It was a cruel warning of what the man's fate would be. Sooner or later, he would never see the light of those candles. Not after he had found himself here. In the presence of the Dark Lord.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the curse was lifted. Harry turned back to see Voldemort tucking his wand into his robes. The snake, which had been slithering around the figure throughout the night, accepted the outstretched hand of the Dark Lord. It reached up to rest around his shoulders.

"Harry, escort our guest to his living quarters," said Voldemort carelessly. Ignoring the glaring eyes that were boring into the back of his head, he approached his throne. "I'm afraid he's rather ill at the moment."

Harry threw the best dirty look that he could muster at the Dark Lord and approached the panting man. He knelt down, draped the arm around his shoulders, and stood up. The man had weakened so much that Harry felt the burden of his weight holding him down. But he refused to show it in front of Voldemort.

"Oh, and Harry . . ." he called as Harry prepared to depart. But Harry, feeling an ensuing explosion within him, halted abruptly but didn't glance back.

" _Know your place_ ," hissed Voldemort in Parseltongue.

Harry ignored the warning. Instead, he reached up to slam the door behind him. With the weight of the man on his back, he stalked through the vacant corridors. His anger caused the head of the snakes plastered against the walls to hiss at him, and the Portraits around him to glare distastefully at him.

But he didn't care. He didn't care if Voldemort cast a thousands Cruciatus Curses on him. He didn't care even if he killed him. He didn't care even if Voldemort hurled him in a volcano, quite frankly.

He had lost all hope yesterday in the Ministry. He had been so close to uncovering the truth yesterday . . . so close of getting Dumbledore alone, but the blasted Ministry crowd had butchered it. If only he had left a note, a message, a means of communication to the old man before he had left. If only he had asked Dumbledore for a private word, perhaps he could have arranged something. If only . . .

Harry cursed his luck.

He reached the underground dungeons, traced the outlines of the snake on the knob, and stepped in. But as he treaded deeper into the dungeons, he stopped dead in his tracks. An icy feeling crossed him. Dementors were floating aimlessly along the corridor, predators hunting for their favorite prey. Harry, however, stood with wide eyes, a strange feeling of defeat enveloping him. Wouldn't it be so easy to just surrender? Wouldn't it be so easy to just give in? To live a life with nothing but emptiness?

What was left for him, anyway? He didn't have anyone waiting for him. His parents were dead. His godfather was dead. His aunt and uncle were dead. The only one left was Dudley, who was adamant that Harry did not discuss magic so he had no help there. And now that the news had spread that he was a criminal, he couldn't join the light lest they arrested him. Or even worse, give him the Dementor's Kiss. And even if he did manage to escape, Voldemort would undoubtedly hunt him down until he was back here.

He was stuck here.

A part of him wished that Voldemort would just do it – just kill him. Then, it could all be over. He deserved to be killed for his crimes. But Voldemort himself refused to give him that mercy. He had tried so hard to distract himself from what he had done last week, but the effort, as always, was futile. He had become so engrossed in his guilt that he had starved himself for nearly three days. He felt dirty. He felt nauseous. He felt sick. Besides the fact that he had collapsed yesterday because of his injuries, he had not slept for three nights before that. He couldn't. He didn't trust himself to sleep. He could hear her screams in his dreams. He could hear her begging. Then abrupt silence. And nothing else.

But the quiet breathing of the man interrupted his thoughts. Shaking his head, his breaths quickening, Harry clenched his teeth and slowly maneuvered around the Dementors. He reached the deepest end of the corridor and stopped. Harry heard the familiar creak of the door as he entered into the musty cell. He chose the cell farthest from the Dementors. He reckoned that the man had suffered enough tonight. He didn't need anymore of it.

As he neared the corner of the cell, he knelt down and deposited the man on the floor. Still weak, the man slumped against the corner. Though his breathing had settled down since they had left the throne room.

But as Harry rose to travel back to his own cell, a hand shot out to clutch his robes which brought him back down to his knees.

"H-Harry," the man – Arthur – whispered, lifting himself up to sitting position. "Is it really you, then?"

Harry stared at him for a long moment. He didn't know how the man knew him or why he was even talking to him in the first place. Hadn't he seen what Harry had done to his son last night?

"I –" Harry stuttered, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

To his surprise, the man smiled.

"You've grown quite a bit since the last time we saw you," he chuckled weakly, offering the young man an appraising look. "Molly will be most thrilled to see you. It hardly feels like ten years, doesn't it?"

"You know who I am?" Harry whispered.

"Of course," he said, looking strangely astonished. "You were a friend of Ron's, don't you remember?"

"Ron?"

Ron . . . Why did that name sound familiar? As Harry's gaze drifted across the room, he suddenly remembered. That man last night. The one he had fought. Weasley's wife had him out by his name. But _him_. His _friend_? They had both tried to kill each other, hadn't they? Or was it only Harry who had tried to kill Weasley? Was it possible that Weasley was only defending himself?

"My son," Arthur stated in a matter-of-fact tone. "You met him on the train on the way to Hogwarts, remember?" Harry looked, if possible, even more bemused. But the man seemed content in reminiscing. "I've never seen Ron happier than he was that year."

"Hogwarts?"

Harry noticed a faint sense of frustration cross the man.

"The school, Hogwarts," Arthur insisted. "Surely you remember? You met Hermione there as well. You three were nearly inseparable."

Harry gave him a strange look. He reckoned that the effects of the Cruciatus Curse must have addled his brains. He almost felt pity for the man. If only he hadn't been so insistent that what he was saying was true.

"Look, I'm sorry," said Harry firmly, trying to pry loose the man's grip on his robes. "But you must be mistaking me for someone else."

"No," Arthur said quickly. His hand shot out to grasp Harry's wrist, who had risen to stand. "You are Harry James Potter, are you not?"

Harry frowned.

"Well, yes – but – "

"We looked endlessly for you, Harry," he said, his tone growing desperate. "We nearly risked Severus's job in order to find you. I've never seen Molly more distraught than when you were discovered missing. It was as if she had lost a son that night."

"What night?" Harry asked impatiently.

"The night that you were discovered missing," he said, frustrated. "I suspected that something had happened. You usually sent letters to Ron every two weeks. But throughout the whole summer, we hadn't received a single letter from you. Sure enough, you never arrived at Hogwarts. Dumbledore searched your aunt's home and found the bodies of your aunt and uncle. Needless to say, we found no sign of you. But I swear to you, Harry, that we would have travelled to the ends of the Earth to find you. But there was no sign of you. We lost you."

But Harry was slowly growing irritated. Was this man mad? Was he, perhaps, set up by the Order to get to Harry? But if so, why was he doing this? What would the Order want from Harry, anyway? Did they want information about Voldemort?

As if Harry knew anything about Voldemort.

Harry had enough.

"What do you mean by 'lost'?" Harry shook his head, his grip on his temper weakening. "You heard me talking to Voldemort, didn't you? You heard everything."

Arthur flinched.

"I did," he replied coolly.

"Then you know what I've done," Harry said firmly. "I can't be the person that you're describing."

Arthur shook his head.

"I don't believe you would ever hurt anyone," he insisted, tightening his clutch at Harry's wrist.

Harry raised a brow.

"You must think very highly of me, then."

Arthur shook his head profusely.

"You've saved me before," he whispered desperately. He looked anguished, which frustrated Harry beyond measure. "You saved my daughter."

"What daughter?" Harry asked, flustered.

"Merlin's beard, Harry," he exclaimed, leaning forward painfully. "My daughter, Ginny. You saved her from the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. Surely you remember?"

Harry winced as the clutch around his wrist became painful.

"What Chamber?" he asked insistently. He struggled to suppress a glare. "What are you playing at?"

"Harry, these events happened," Arthur said firmly. A series of coughs cut him off. Despite his irritation with the man, Harry hurried to help him lean against the wall, but the man didn't let go of his wrist. "Everything I'm telling you is the truth," he said hoarsely, "I have proof of it. You were there. You used to spend your summers and holidays with us – with the Weasleys. Have you forgotten it?"

Harry looked down at the man, his irritation slowly fusing to desperation.

"But – I _couldn't_ have," he tried. "I never had a family."

There couldn't be anyone out there waiting for him. There couldn't be anyone that'd be expecting him to return. He couldn't have a family waiting for him. They couldn't have missed him. There couldn't be people that saw him for what he had done. He was supposed to be recognised for the person that he was now.

"But you did," Arthur stated firmly. "Us – the Weasleys, we _were_ your family. That day that Ron and the twins broke you out of your aunt's home, Molly and I gained a son that day. We saw how you were treated at home, and we were prepared to take you in as one of our own. Not to mention, you got along just fine with our other children," he smiled at Harry's startled look. "You had us, Harry. You've always had."

But Harry stared at him for a long moment. He studied him for any hint of a lie – any hint of deception. Anything that would prove to Harry that he should just walk away from this man and never look back.

This man was mad. Barking mad.

"I don't understand," Harry said slowly. "Why are you saying all this? Didn't you see what happened last night in the Ministry?"

The man looked alarmed.

'Great Scott, what happened?"

Harry regarded with unconcealed suspicion.

"Your son," said Harry slowly, looking at the man as if he expected horns to sprout out of his head. "Last night at the Atrium? Weren't you there?"

"I wasn't," breathed Arthur, his eyes widening with horror. "I was at a different part of the Ministry. Dumbledore sent me to –"

"Dumbledore?" Harry demanded. "You know Dumbledore?"

"Well – I – of course," Arthur stammered. "My dear boy, who _doesn't_ know Dumbledore?"

But Harry looked at him in a new light. He knew where Dumbledore was! There was still some hope left for Harry. He could finally find the man. He could finally speak to him. He could finally figure out the truth.

"Where is he?" he demanded, ignoring the man's wince. "I need to talk to him."

"I'm afraid I can't help you there, Harry," replied Arthur, his head bowed in shame. Harry's heart sank. "Dumbledore always has his guard up, especially now in these dark days that we're in. He always ensures that the places he visits are completely secured before he enters. And what with my capture and all, I couldn't possibly hope to. . ." His voice trailed off.

A faint sense of guilt crossed Harry. He had been so engrossed in his troubles that he had disregarded the man's own.

"You're part of the Order, aren't you?" he asked, sitting against a nearby wall.

Arthur hesitated.

"Is it that obvious?" he asked weakly. Harry nodded. "Well, the Weasley lot does tend to stand out, don't they? Of course, I'm not surprised that you know, Harry. You were there with us, after all. Saved my neck last time, didn't you?"

But Harry stayed silent. He didn't know what to say. The man was still rambling as if Harry had once lived with him. As if he had once known him, which completely befuddled Harry.

Instead, he changed the subject.

"You mentioned that you were at a different part of the Ministry . . .?"

Arthur's expression darkened.

"Oh yes," he replied bitterly, his gaze shifting to the wall behind Harry. "I was sent by Dumbledore to retrieve something in the Senior Undersecretary's office. He needed it to be done last night while the Ministry was under lockdown. I suppose he thought that the room was safe and empty, that I could enter without trouble. But as soon as I stepped inside to retrieve the said object, I heard commotion behind me. Needless to say, the Minister's secretary had used Death Eaters to guard her belongings. I suppose she expected forced entry."

Harry frowned.

Based on what he had gathered from the story, the Order seemed to be looking something dark that the Death Eaters seemed to want as well.

"What were you looking for?"

Arthur pinned him with a hard stare.

"Can I trust you, Harry?"

Harry stared.

"I – I don't know."

Harry shifted uncomfortably under the man's piercing stare. He _had_ been honest, though. There was a part of him that was trustworthy, and there was the other that was not. Nevertheless, he understood if the man didn't want to tell him.

But the man sat up painfully and reached around his neck to pull something out. To Harry's surprise, a green locket dangled down from the band in his hand.

"He sent me for this."

Harry absentmindedly reached for it and let it rest in his palm. He noticed that there was gold framings around the locket in the shape of a diamond. In the center, however, was a snake curled onto itself in the shape of an "S." Harry immediately understood what it was. Voldemort never failed to tell his followers about how he was the heir of Slytherin.

This was Salazar Slytherin's locket.

"It's not the real copy," Arthur interjected, watching Harry carefully. "It's quite obviously a fake. Just open it, and you'll see it. It seems that the owner of the locket was rather daft herself. That fake locket must've cost her a fortune."

Harry frowned.

"What would the Order want from Slytherin's locket, anyway?" he said suspiciously. "I reckoned that was something that only Death Eaters would want."

"I'm not quite certain, Harry," replied Arthur. "Dumbledore seemed adamant to retrieve it, however. He's not exactly eager to tell us why he's looking for ancient artifacts. Always likes to speak in riddles, that man," he shook his head with a faint smile.

But Harry gave him a long and hard stare. He couldn't resist asking.

"But why've you told me?" he asked, his eyes narrowed. "Isn't this the Order's business?"

To Harry's surprise, a determined look crossed the man's eyes. He leaned forward to lay a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"I want you to have it," he said sternly. Ignoring Harry's startled look, he shook his head. "Look, Harry. It's quite obvious to me, and perhaps to you as well, that my place in the Order has ended here. I don't know how much time I have left, but I can't possibly hope to finish what I've started. I can't exactly find the real copy of this locket locked up in this dungeon. That's why I'm entrusting you with this task."

Harry's eyes widened.

"You want me to find the real copy? You trust me enough to find it?"

"Of course," said Arthur softly, his mood suddenly forlorn. "I've accepted my fate, Harry. As soon as I arrived here, I knew what was to come. I knew that I would never again see my family, though I'm grateful to have seen them grow this far. I can't possibly hope to complete my mission. Please, Harry . . . I ask this one favor from you. Consider it as a dead man's will."

Harry regarded him with both admiration and suspicion in his gaze.

"You're willing . . . to take it to the end?"

Arthur nodded. "Until death or insanity? Yes, Harry. I would never dream of selling the Order out . . . Much less my family. You understand that, don't you?"

Harry suddenly felt a strange feeling overcome him. It was as if a flame had been lit in the dark and dense room. It was strange to see someone accept their fate so readily for such a good intention – for their family. It had been a long time since Harry had seen such defiance, and he felt oddly comforted by it.

"Yeah, I –" he then met the man's eyes with a determined gaze. "Of course," he said firmly, his hand tightening around the locket.

Arthur smiled.

"Good man, Harry," he chuckled, clapping the young man on the shoulder. He then shifted his arms behind his head, closed his eyes, and slumped down against the wall. "With all of these rumors surfacing, I can't imagine how anyone would ever doubt your good heart. I certainly didn't."

Harry felt the unfamiliar curl of his lip.

"Thanks," he whispered, though he felt the kindness was undeserved.

He didn't know how long or how much effort it would take to convince the man otherwise. But he decided to let it slide for now. Standing up, he dusted off his robes and made to leave before he was suddenly stopped by the man.

"Harry," a whisper came from the corner. Harry heard the ruffle of the robes. But he stood with his hand on the cell lock, his back facing the man. "Is my family all right?"

Harry stiffened. He didn't glance back. His lips felt dry, his heart sinking down to the rough dungeon floor. How could he tell him that he had brought his son to the brink of death last night? How could he tell him that he had kept his son under the Cruciatus Curse for two whole minutes? That his whole family had been caught in a full-fledged battle last night?

The man had seemed so kind, so good-natured that Harry couldn't bear to see his change in disposition. So engrossed in his thoughts, he felt his lips moving without his consent.

"Yeah," he said, his voice sounding distant. "Yeah. Everything's fine," he hoped to God that he was right. "Just get some rest. I'll see you later."

Without glancing back, he stepped out. A _cling_ rung through the desolate dungeons as he shut the door behind him.

* * *

But Ron noticed something strange at the way that Fred grinned. Unlike before, his grin seemed forced, which seemed unusual for the typically gregarious twins. But as soon as he opened his mouth to speak, Fred sat up and looked down at his feet with an uncharacteristically solemn expression.

"Ron," he said quietly. "There's something you should know."

Ron inferred the worst.

"What the bloody Hell happened, Fred?" he demanded, scrambling off of his bed. Ignoring the look of alarm from Rosè, he marched over to his brother. "Has anyone –?"

"No," Fred cut him off, shooting a warning look at Rosè. "No one's died yet, though we're fixing to have one if you don't quit harping down my neck."

Ron grimaced, his neck colouring. "Sorry," he said grudgingly, rubbing the back of his head in shame. "Guess I got a bit carried away, didn't I?"

Despite his mellow mood, a grin formed on Fred's freckled face.

"Best take back that apology if you know what's good for you," Fred threatened, waving his wand ominously. "First rule of Weasley Wizard Wheezes is you should never apologize when you're clearly at fault."

Ron frowned.

"Why's that?"

Fred replied lazily. "In this house, pride is better than truth. You're sure you were a Gryffindor, mate? Or . . ." his eyes widened dramatically, which caused Rosè to giggle. "Were you, in fact, a Raven in disguise?"

Ron glared.

"I'd never had the brains for Ravenclaw, and you know it," he said, crossing his arms. "If anyone was a Ravenclaw in disguise, it was Hermione."

"What about Hermione?" murmured a voice from behind them. A yawning Hermione was sitting up from the bed, rubbing her aching neck. Her eyes were blotched from sleep.

"Mummy!" exclaimed Rosè, who threw herself in her mother's arms. Hermione, however, groggily caught her in her arms.

Ron threw a warning glare at Fred, the latter of whom grinned mischievously, before he went to greet his wife.

"Morning, Hermione," the boys greeted her loudly.

She winced.

"Must you be so loud?" she huffed irritably.

"Have you got a noise amplifier in there?" joked Ron, tugging on her bushy locks. "We're just using our normal tones."

"Haven't you two ever heard of whispering?" she said exasperatedly, adjusting Rosè in her lap. Fred and Ron glanced at each other quickly.

"The other alternative is to say nothing at all. Would you prefer that instead, Hermione?" said Fred cheekily.

Hermione huffed.

"Yes, I'd rather say that I would," she sniffed, looking like Professor McGonagall that Fred and Ron grinned. "It's not as if there's anything worthwhile in your discussion, anyway," ignoring their shaking heads, she turned to Ron with an appraising look. "How are you?"

He raised a brow.

"How do I look?"

She smiled.

"Quite dashing," they laughed. From the bed in front of them, Fred imitated a vomiting motion, which caused Rosè to burst into giggles. "I was wondering when you'd wake up. Madam Pomfrey said that you'd be ready to leave by tomorrow. I suppose that means that all of your injuries have been healed." Ron noticed a hint of wariness in her tone.

"Yeah, well," said Ron, stretching widely. He winced when his joints gave a loud _snap_. "What can Madam Pomfrey _not_ handle?"

But he froze abruptly when he caught Fred and Hermione casting furtive glances at each other.

"You didn't tell him?" Hermione asked Fred. The latter shook his head with a grim expression, and Hermione sighed.

"Tell me what?" demanded Ron, who felt his heart racing madly. "What happened, Hermione?"

Hermione simply offered him a solemn look before she took his hand and stood up. Adjusting Rosè on her hip, she led her husband to the farthest corner of the room with Fred trailing behind the family. She stopped abruptly and pointed a finger at the dormant figure on the bed. From beside the bed, Angelina looked up with drenched eyes and offered them a weak smile.

Ron stilled at what he saw.

"George," Ron breathed in horror.

But it was not the same George as before. To Ron's horror, there was a gaping hole where his left eye was. Someone – or something – had blasted his eye out, leaving him with a purple and blue frame around his eye and eyelids. There was now an obvious difference between the twins. Rosè whimpered at the sight of him, and Hermione tucked her face in her robes.

"Poor George," Hermione said softly, laying a reassuring hand on Ron's back.

But a soft whisper interrupted them.

"I'm mad, geddit?" muttered George, who peeked open his good eye to look at his visitors. "Mad Eye Moody," he smiled weakly, gesturing at his eye.

Despite their solemn mood, they smiled.

"Always the jokester, aren't you?" said Ron weakly, sitting beside him on the bed.

"Hear, hear," said Fred, grinning widely. He moved to sit beside Ron.

"Is this really the time to joke around?" chided Angelina, shaking her dark head. "Honestly, this is hardly the time for a laugh."

"You're right, Angelina," said George, who winked at his twin brother. "I'll _see_ to it that it isn't."

"Come off it. He looks and acts like Mad Eye everyday," laughed Fred, humour filling his eyes. "Reckon we should warn him about a competitor?"

George grinned.

"I dunno why Crouch bothered using Polyjuice Potion to impersonate him," he joked. "Just lose an eye and you'll be rough and gritty as he is in no time."

They all laughed. Angelina, too, gave a grudging smile.

Ron felt slightly comforted that the twins were taking it in their stride, despite George's terrible ordeal. But his smile wilted as he recalled the events from yesterday. There didn't seem to be any heavy casualties, which was reassuring to hear considering that they had been led to a trap. But the stings of his injuries reminded him of what – or who – had been the subject that had greatly upset him.

It was true . . . Harry had really betrayed them. For the right or wrong reasons, he had still stood beside Voldemort. He had injured Ron. He had nearly killed both him and Hermione if Dumbledore hadn't stepped in between to help. He had cast the Killing Curse so naturally, so casually, that it was no doubt in Ron's mind that the victims of the 'Master's Right Hand' were Harry's victims.

Harry's victims.

Ron nearly felt like screaming at the thought. His friend, his best mate . . . The one that he had once considered a better brother than the ones he shared by blood had killed people. He had become a cold-blooded killer. Whether or not it was willingly done, whether or not Harry had reasons behind his actions, didn't change the fact that he had killed people.

He had killed _innocents_.

Ron wondered if he could ever forgive him.

But then, he remembered leaving the battle to Dumbledore's capable hands. He cleared his throat and interrupted the conversation.

"What happened to – ?" he stopped, unable to say the name. "to –?" He exhaled in frustration.

Hermione understood.

"Albus let him go," she said quietly, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

Ron looked outraged. He bolted up from his seat, unable to believe that Dumbledore would do something like this.

"Let him _go_?" he said furiously, moving past the beds and in front of Hermione. "Is he mad? Don't tell me he sent him back to Voldemort, did he?"

"Easy there, mate," Fred warned.

But Hermione looked torn and hesitant. "He – he _did_ ," she whispered, her expression showing her disapproval of the decision. "But _Ron_ –"

"Barking, he is -"

"Listen, Ron –"

"– lost his marbles –"

"– hear me out –"

"After all he's done?"

"They were going to give him the Dementor's Kiss."

The whole room looked at Hermione with horror. Despite his fury with Harry, Ron stood in shock. Sure, he had resented for Harry for his crimes, but he had never dreamed of offering him up to the Dementor's Kiss. Friend or not.

"What?" Ron breathed.

Hermione bit her lip and looked down at Rosè, who was hiding in her mother's robes.

"He's possessed, Ron," she whispered, her eyes glistening. "Voldemort was possessing him all last night in the Ministry. That's why his eyes have changed color. But Dumbledore . . . Snape told him what had happened beforehand. When we left last night, Dumbledore used Legilimency on him, which removed the enchantment. He's still Harry, Ron," she said, wiping tears from her eyes. "He's still the Harry that we knew before. And he never meant to hurt anyone. It was Voldemort. It was always Voldemort."

Ron stared at her for a long moment. He didn't know how to feel. He felt a multitude of emotions: relief that his friend was still there, bitterness, anguish, resentment, contentment. Who to curse? Who to blame?

They were mysteries to him.

"There's one other thing," she said shakily, looking on the edge of a breakdown. "This wasn't the first time it's happened. It happened last time after Sirius's death, too. Voldemort possessed him, but Dumbledore said that Harry's love for Sirius was so strong, that it pushed Voldemort out of his mind. But when Dumbledore used Legilimency, he tried to find a memory that would do the same. A memory that would push Voldemort out of his mind, but he couldn't . . . He doesn't remember any of us, Ron. Voldemort's erased his memories."

Ron felt like he had been drenched in ice.

Harry hadn't recognized any of them yesterday? Was that why he had never sought them out, even though he had access to the outside? Was that why he had never asked for help? Why he had never bothered sending even letters to them?

Ron had always suspected, because of Harry's innate defiance, that Harry would always find a way out of a difficult situation. It was pure talent that he was capable of it. He'd use anything and everything, no matter how limited his resources are, to break out of it. That was Harry's strength. To learn as he goes – to improvise. To use what was available. And somehow, always emerge victorious. Ron had always suspected that Harry always knew how to escape from Voldemort, but chose not to.

And now he understood why.

There was nowhere that he could go. Before, he had only left the Dursleys for the Weasleys. But now that he had forgotten the Weasleys, and the Ministry threatening to arrest him, where else would he go besides to stay put?

"How – how much has he forgotten?" asked Ron, his voice sounding distant, though a part of him didn't want to hear it.

Hermione sniffed.

"His five years at Hogwarts."

A tense silence overcame the room as each became absorbed in their thoughts. No one knew what to say. Nor did they knew what to think of their fallen friend. But before anyone could speak, the door to the Healing room flew open and a familiar couple entered the room. The others quickly composed themselves and looked as if they hadn't just been discussing such a touchy subject.

"Ron!" exclaimed Molly, who tackled her son into a bear-like embrace. Ron, however, half-heartedly tried to extract himself. "Oh, Ronnie! Are you all right? Are you hurting? And George, dear, how are you? Oh, you look rather pale, dear. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?"

"Mum," said Fred wearily. "Shut up, will you? You're going to wake everyone up." He dodged the slap from his mother.

"Oh, you," she admonished with a huff. Fred merely winked at her in return. "I s'pose you're right. Perhaps I got too carried away."

"You always do, dear," said a voice from behind her.

Ron looked up at the familiar face of the man, whose balding head shined against the light, his glasses lopsided on his nose, a large smile planted on his face.

"You all right, son?" said Arthur Weasley, beaming widely at Ron.

* * *

A/N: I love writing Harry and Voldemort's discussions. They're witty and funny, in a dark way.

R&R


	10. Chapter 10: Denial

_In the stillness of the night, a hooded figure treaded silently down the trail. Across the trail, he could see the illumination of the lights within the home. It seemed to beckon him. A sort of instinctual voice told him that he had arrived at his destination. His cloak parted as he drew his wand. He stood silently, his head tilted up as he observed the occupants of the house. It was clear that the woman's husband was up and about. But he had no desire to kill him._

 _After all, he only did as he was told._

 _He knocked on the oak-natured door. A startled cry came from within. But he didn't care. He was invisible to all but himself. As the door slammed ajar, a thin, brown-haired man greeted him, his face contorted with confusion. But Harry, seizing the chance, cast a silent Stunning Charm. He caught the man before he reached the ground. He glanced around quickly for any more occupants before he shut the door and entered. A voice in his head was telling him that the woman was upstairs._

 _Removing the Invincibility Cloak, he flicked his wand to extinguish the light. Tucking his Cloak in his pocket, he treaded upstairs. He felt as if he was gliding. He felt as if he was freed. Freed from restrictions. Free from boundaries. Free from the cages that the light had built for him. There was no stopping him._

 _The Dark Lord awaits._

 _Up and up, he travelled. Various clothes were tossed against the rails of the stairs. Obstacles, mainly clattered boxes and tools, met him on the way. But he didn't care. He was only here for one task._ _Reaching the landing, the voice beckoned him to the end of the hallway. His wand aloft at his side, he walked across and stopped. As his hand touched the knob, he noticed that the door was locked. But there was no stopping. He must complete his task._

 _The Dark Lord awaits._

 _Lifting his hand, he cast a blasting charm on the door. Pieces of wood shattered across the room as he entered. He heard a hysterical cry from within._

 _He knew that he had arrived._

 _"W-What a-are y-you doing?" exclaimed a female voice. He noticed that she had tugged her comforter over herself, as if shielding herself. "W-Who a-are you?"_

 _He nearly snorted._

 _"A friend," he replied simply, stepping into the room._

 _He flicked his wand, and her own wand came zooming towards him. It was a necessary precaution to him. But she looked terrified. She shuffled near the headboard of the bed, screaming. Flailing like a child just out of their mother's womb. Funny how her life begun that way._

 _Funny how it would end that way._

 _"P-please don't h-hurt m-me," she begged as the young man approached her. They were almost at arm's length of each other. "P-please. I'll d-do a-anything."_

 _"I won't hurt you," he said softly._

 _To his amusement, she looked almost relieved. But he reached up to point a wand at her forehead and tilted his head._

 _"Dying doesn't hurt," he said, a curl in his lip._

 _The last thing she saw were the vivid red eyes of the young man before she collapsed against the headboard. Sprawled like a ragdoll on the bed._

"Harry!" a voice shouted, shaking the young man's shoulders. "Harry!"

"No!" Harry gasped, jolting from his hunched position at his desk. His breathing was coming out as pants. He felt a nauseous feeling clawing at his insides. He almost felt like retching, but he swallowed it back painfully.

"You all right, son?" asked a concerned voice.

Dazedly, Harry snapped his head up to meet the beetle-like eyes of Barnabas. Suddenly, his wits returned to him. He was back at Grimmauld's place. He must have fallen asleep at his study. He looked around and found clusters of wrinkled parchments – mostly of the Daily Prophet – littered across his desk. He had been looking for homes overseas when he had apparently fallen asleep.

"Yeah," he said distractedly. He used the sleeve of his ropes to wipe the sweat off of his face. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Barnabas didn't look convinced.

"You look like you've seen Death, son," he said, laying a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Hadley's told me you haven't been sleeping well. Why not try a Dreamless Potion for a change?"

Harry blanched. He certainly didn't need anymore sleep.

"No, I'm fine. Just a bad dream."

He tried to ignore the piercing gaze of the man. He distracted himself by rummaging through the various parchments, quills, and Daily Prophet articles on his desk. His hazy mind trying to deduce if he had actually accomplished anything last night.

But Barnabas saw right through him.

"Blimey, Harry," he said sternly. "You haven't been stressing yourself about sending us off, have you? You know that we're willing to risk staying here longer if only for your own good health, right?"

Harry grew irritated. His lack of sleep was slowly affecting his temper.

"I dunno if I ever considered myself having good health," he said dryly. "But thanks for the thought."

He certainly didn't need anyone worrying over him. Quite frankly, after the events of his dream, he didn't deserve any sympathy at all. Frustrated, he stood up and walked past the elderly man without another glance. He had almost reached the door when Barnabas stopped him.

"How long has it been since you've eaten anything?" he asked, his eyes narrowed. As if he already knew the answer.

"Why does it matter?" Harry retorted.

"Merlin's beard, Harry," he exclaimed. "You've been harping down our throats for not caring for ourselves, but you've been shunning your own advice. What's gotten into you?"

"Nothing. I've always been like this, if you've cared to notice," Harry said darkly.

"So you admit you've been neglecting yourself?"

"Would you believe me if I lied?"

Barnabas pursed his lips.

"You're certainly acting your age," he said darkly.

Harry whipped around.

"Yeah. Well, quit pestering me if you want to keep your wits, then," Harry snapped. A part of him knew that the man only wanted to help him. But today . . .? Couldn't he have chosen a better time?

To his surprise, Barnabas sighed. He took the chair that Harry had been sitting on and looked down at his feet.

"I'm not questioning your wits, son," he said wearily. If Harry would have been in a normal state of mind, he would almost have felt guilty for his outburst. "I'm just saying that you should watch over yourself. You might not understand this, but do you know how guilty we feel knowing that you're risking so much for us to be here? We feel indebted to you, Harry –"

This time, Harry truly felt guilty.

"I never asked –"

"I know you didn't," he affirmed softly. "which makes us feel even worse. You think we don't know what you've been going through? You think we haven't noticed the scars that you took for each of us? We're forever in your debt, Harry. And the last thing we want is for you to starve yourself," he lowered his voice. "You might not notice it. But you're killing yourself, son."

Harry shot him a weary look.

It was true. He _was_ killing himself. Not intentionally, of course. But for every victim that he had killed, he starved himself for weeks on end without an ounce of regret. He had also grown a habit of sleeping as little as possible. He often kept himself awake for three or four days in a row. Even with Dreamless Potion, he didn't trust himself to sleep. He feared reliving all those moments when he had robbed the lives of his victims. Just the thought of it all made him feel like retching.

He honestly didn't know how he was still alive.

Often, the others around him, mostly the prisoners, had to remind him to eat or sleep. It was almost a battle of will to keep him alive. Every-time he ate something, the thought of his victims made him feel like throwing it all up. When he slept, he felt like needles were piercing his forehead. They haunted his dreams. But if there were others that needed him . . .well . . .

Might as well stay for them, right?

"Sorry," he muttered, his eyes averted. "I just haven't been . . ." Haven't been well? Haven't been paying attention? His voice trailed off.

Barnabas understood. He stood up and approached Harry.

"Say no more," he said firmly, clapping the younger man on the shoulder.

Harry gave him a weak smile.

He watched as the man exited the study. He glanced around once more at the messy study. Someday it will get cleaned, he thought grimly. He sighed and exited the room. He reckoned that he ought to get himself cleaned up before he joined them for dinner. He treaded to the end of the corridor, up the stairs, and into what was originally his godfather's room.

With the help of Kreacher, Harry had tidied the room up and had even added his own flair to the room. The room was no longer dim and grey but soft periwinkle from the sheets of the bed to the walls around it. Opaque curtains fluttered across the open windows, which allowed the frosty winter air to sweep across the room. Dim candles and fluffy clouds floated along the ceilings. The room radiated an air of calmness and peace that Harry himself had always wished for.

Despite all of his work, however, Harry never actually used the room. In fact, he never even stayed the night in Grimmauld's Place. He didn't want to let Voldemort know that he was here.

With a weary sigh, he turned and rummaged through the drawers for a fresh set of clothes. He tossed them over his shoulders and turned to the left of the room where the suite was. He reckoned a long shower would wash away the dirty feeling that he had gotten from his dream earlier. Swallowing back painfully, he shut the door behind him.

He made a point of avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he got into the shower. Over the years, he had grown to hate himself. To hate everything he stood for. To hate that blasted scar on his forehead. To hate even his own vivid green eyes. It reminded him so much of that Curse. The Curse that had snuffed out the lives of his victims. The Curse that made him feel like tearing his hair apart – lock by lock.

How could he have done this? Though Harry hated the man with every fiber of his being, Voldemort was right. He had let himself get influenced. He had let Voldemort get to him. He had listened to the voice in his head. He had done exactly what Voldemort had told him. Without thought. Without regret. Without a single hint of hesitance. The worst part of it was that he was conscious of it all, which meant that he could have stopped Voldemort. He could have intervened.

But he didn't. He _couldn't_.

He didn't understand. What was stopping him from intervening? His possessions were almost like a nightmare. Like looking through his own eyes, but just letting it all happen. Letting someone else take control of his hands. Letting someone else take control of his feet. And just watching, unable to do anything . . . All he could do was accept that it was beyond his control. Beyond his own free will.

But if he was letting Voldemort in his mind, wasn't he basically condoning his own actions? Wasn't he basically an affiliate of the crime?

He had lost count of how many victims he had killed.

Clenching his teeth, he exited the shower and threw on his robes. Everyday was a burden – a trial for him to keep moving forward. He couldn't live like this. He couldn't bear to see another person killed because of him. If it hadn't been for the prisoners, he probably would have fled long ago. But even if he did flee, Voldemort could possess him at any time, any place until he returned. In a way, it was good that Voldemort locked him away in the dungeons. He couldn't hurt anyone there.

But there were people that needed him. There were millions of people to save.

As he exited the suite, he wondered if good deeds erased the bad ones. Was it fair that he would be judged for his crimes instead of his good actions? Was it fair that he would be forgiven for saving more people than he had hurt?

Stop, he thought firmly.

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He then approached the tall, thin mirror next to the drawer and studied his reflection. He certainly didn't _look_ like a prisoner. Though he had grown a habit of not eating well, he looked relatively healthy. He was still thin as a rail, but certainly not scrawny. There were deep bags under his eyes, a worried furrow across his brow. His eyes were dim and haunted. His scar on his cheek spanned across his face to his earlobe. His hair was even messier than usual, though a bit damp from the shower.

Slightly annoyed, he waved his hand and dried his hair. He then tried to flatten it. But the effort, as always, was futile. As he studied himself, he noticed a tiny, blurry figure at the right edge of the mirror.

He raised a brow.

"Should I pretend you're not here?"

He couldn't quite distinguish her expression. He didn't know where his glasses were. He was still blind. But he could've sworn her eyes widened. She stepped into the room with a guilty expression on her face.

"Sorry," Freya whispered.

Harry studied her through the mirror for a moment before he turned to scan the room for his glasses. He found them on the sink in the bathroom. They were rather foggy from the shower. He cleaned them with his robes before he entered the bedroom only to find her sitting on the bed, her eyes studying her feet.

As he approached, she looked up.

"You've got a letter," she stated, holding up the said parchment. Harry placed his glasses on his nose. "An owl came by while we were having dinner. It's for you."

Harry frowned.

"Really?" he asked. Who would bother contacting him? "What for?"

She shrugged.

"I dunno," she said, swinging her feet. Harry frowned and sat onto the bed beside her. "I didn't open it."

She looked fit to burst. Harry had never seen her so excited. It was clear that she wanted to say something to him. Harry took the letter from her with a suspicious stare.

Finally, unable to contain her excitement, she said.

"Harry?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I have an owl?"

Harry shot her an annoyed look.

"No."

"Oh, come on," she begged, leaning against his arm. Harry resisted the urge to tug it back. He feared that she might stop his blood flow. "Why not? I've never had an owl."

He ripped open the parchment.

"You'd kill the poor thing. Just like how you're killing my arm."

She looked outraged. Instead of removing her hands, she only tightened her grip.

"I would never!" she said indignantly. "I'll be really gentle, I promise."

He shot her a look.

"Really making a point of showing it, aren't you?"

She pouted.

"You're _mean_."

"No. I'm _gentle_."

Freya huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. Despite himself, Harry smirked. He turned to study the parchment. To his surprise, he discovered that it was from Dudley. There wasn't a lot of information. He was just asking how Harry was doing and inviting him for a visit today. But Harry frowned at the last statement.

"Dress smartly?" he said bemusedly. Curious, Freya peeked over his shoulder. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Freya looked up at him.

"Who's Dudley?" she asked curiously.

Harry grimaced. He tossed the parchment on the bed, stood up and sighed.

"My cousin," he said simply.

"You've got a _cousin_?" she gaped, her hazel eyes wide. She was staring at him with amazement. Harry, however, tried to ignore the heat on his face as he rummaged through his drawers for Muggle clothes.

"I know. Strange, isn't it?" he asked dryly.

Of course. Harry with a family? The abandoned orphan actually had a family? Even he sometimes found it hard to believe. It was bound to leave others gobsmacked.

Freya blinked. She stood up and walked towards Harry, who was making his way to the bathroom to change.

"No, it's just –" she bit her lip. Harry stopped at the door and looked down at her with a raised brow. "Can I meet him?"

Harry glared.

"No," he declared, slamming the door shut.

He heard an annoyed huff from the young girl and rolled his eyes. The lack of sleep was really getting to him. He was losing quite a lot of patience lately.

"Why are you being so mean today?" she snapped, her voice muffled behind the door. Finished, Harry emerged, now wearing a black jumper and dark brown trousers.

"I'm not," he retorted, walking past her towards the cabinet. "You're just being sensitive." There, he tugged a wool, black coat that reached around his hips out of its hanger. He shrugged it on and buttoned it up.

"See? You're doing it again."

Harry sighed. He decided that it was best to be frank.

"I didn't have enough sleep, okay?"

Freya crossed her arms.

"You never have enough sleep."

Harry scowled.

He whipped around to meet her eyes. "You're being real cheeky today, aren't you?"

"I didn't have enough sleep, okay?" she retorted, her lips pouting.

Despite himself, Harry gave her an impressed look. Sighing, he approached the young girl and knelt down to meet her eyes.

"You know why I can't take you," he said seriously.

He felt rather guilty for lashing out at her. Regardless, he was quite impressed that she had stood her ground against him.

Her eyes averted.

"It's for our own good," she mumbled, a furrow in her brow. It was clear that she was not happy with being locked up in the house. "I know," she huffed. "But it doesn't make it any easier."

"No, it doesn't," he replied, his tone solemn, "But you've got company, haven't you? And besides, as soon as I find you a new home, you won't be locked up in here anymore. You'll be outside. Maybe with a family of your own. Isn't that you've always wanted?"

Freya pursued her lips. Her downcast eyes glistened.

"Well, yes – but," her voice shook slightly. Harry strained his ears to hear her next statement. "Can't we stay here with you?"

Harry's heart sank. He almost felt like kicking himself for lashing out at her earlier. He had been so engrossed in his own misery that he had completely ignored her own.

"No," he shook his head. "It's dangerous here –"

"But why –?"

"Because I'm here," he said sternly.

She frowned.

"You'd never hurt us," she said softly.

His eyes averted.

"I could," he said quietly. "They're after me, Freya. They're going to be looking me, and I can't have you all getting in the way."

"But we haven't been caught –" she protested.

"I'm not risking it," he said firmly. "It's not safe here. You're better off elsewhere," he tried to smile at the sight of her tears. "And besides, you wouldn't want to live with a mean bloke like me, would you?'

She smiled weakly and shook her head.

"I'm too gentle for you," she said seriously.

For the first time in months, Harry chuckled.

"Right you are," he nodded and pulled her into an embrace. Would be lying to himself if he said that he _wanted_ them to leave?

"Does that mean I get an owl?" she asked, her voice muffled by his coat. Harry drew her back and pinned her with an unimpressed stare.

He gave her a long stare before he sighed.

"I'll consider it," he said begrudgingly. A part of him felt like he had been blackmailed. Voldemort's manipulations was nothing compared to the smaller kids.

She grinned.

"Thanks, Harry," she smiled before running across the room. Harry sighed and stood up. He had been looking for a scarf through his hangers before she peeked her head back in, "Hadley wants to know if you'll be joining us for dinner."

Harry finally found his scarf. A knitted red scarf that he wrapped around his neck.

He shook his head.

"I don't think so," he said, exiting the room. He turned to shut the door. "Tell her for me I'll be having dinner elsewhere tonight."

He was quite certain that Dudley would invite him in for dinner. He always made sure to offer his guests as much food as possible during their visits.

Freya nodded.

"Right."

And she was off.

Harry followed her downstairs, albeit at a slower pace. He reached the corridor and opened a nearby closet for his boots. They were ankle-length brown boots that seemed appropriate for the winter weather. Finally, he shut the door and peeked his head into the kitchen. There, he saw that all four guests were sitting around the dinner table with the house elf hovering beside them. They seemed to be having a rather animated discussion, which pleased him nonetheless. At least they were moving on from their troubles, even though they had all lost their families.

Sighing, he turned to walk out of the home, trying to stifle the shivers that he had gotten from the cold air. Even though almost every inch of him was covered, except for his hands and his face, he had trouble adjusting to the cold air. He wondered if it was the consequences of not caring for himself for too long.

Descending the four steps of the porch, he passed the ends of the Fidelius Charm and treaded down the streets. When he had first learned of his inheritance, Harry had been startled to discover that his cousin actually lived very close to Grimmauld's Place. In fact, Harry had met Dudley while he had been walking along the streets with his soon-to-be wife. Ever since the death of his parents, Dudley had toned down on his aggressiveness and had even matured faster now that he was alone. Harry had actually been startled when Dudley invited him in for a visit. Despite their rusty childhood, Dudley seemed to have fixed himself. He had even invited Harry in for his wedding. But Harry had been unable to attend it since Voldemort had wanted him that day.

That was the day that another victim had fallen.

Shaking his head, Harry finally reached the end of the street where a small, grey house stood. The grass was trimmed and clean in the front. The garden beds looked stiff and cared for, not unlike the garden beds that Harry's Aunt Petunia had been so fond of. Grimacing at the memory, Harry approached the house. He nearly cried out loud when a dog, with a thick chain around its neck, barked loudly and snarled at him. It bared its teeth and growled as if he was a prey of some sort. Harry, however, was not surprised to see that Dudley had gotten such an aggressive animal.

"Mangy mutt," he muttered, shooting a glare at the dog. But the latter simply barked loudly in return.

He turned to knock on the door. From his place, Harry could hear the clinks of plates and silverware. He could even hear the faint sound of the television. There were also several voices talking in a muffled tone. But before he could dwell on the matter, he blinked dumbly as the door slammed open. Suddenly, something small collided against his legs.

"Uncle Harry!" exclaimed a young voice.

Yes. Harry was an uncle.

Harry looked down only to find Dudley's daughter clinging to his legs. She had all of her father's features, his blonde hair and blue eyes. But her physique was different. Even at four years old, she was quite small and petite for someone her age.

"'Lo, Daisy," said Harry, leaning down to extract her from his legs.

But before he could blink, she reached up to seize his glasses and tried to bolt when he caught her in his arms.

"Lemme go!" she giggled, wrestling against his grip. "Lemme go, Uncle Harry, or I'm telling Daddy."

He raised a brow.

"Tell him what?" he challenged, lifting her up in his arms. "Tell him you're being a bad daughter?"

"No, you're a bad Uncle!"

"Go on, then," he said, outstretching a palm. "Give me back my glasses."

Instead of giving it back, however, she simply placed it on her own nose and flashed him a mischievous smile. Despite himself, he couldn't bring himself to get angry at her. Instead, he sighed and shook his head.

Once again, he reminded himself to never to have children.

"Daisy!" barked a female voice from the inside. "Who is it, Daisy? How many times must we warn you never open the door to strangers?"

Harry felt the young girl stiffen. Frowning, he took his glasses, placed her down on the ground as she raced inside.

"It's no stranger, Aunt Marge. It's Uncle Harry."

Harry gaped.

 _Aunt Marge?_

Aunt Marge was here? That was the _last_ person he wanted to meet. No _way_ was he going in there.

"Harry?" demanded an astonished voice from the inside. "Harry, who?"

He had just turned on his heels to make a furtive escape when the young girl came back, seized him with an alarming strength about her, and dragged her reluctant uncle inside where the living room was. Harry caught a glimpse of a large, greying woman sprawled on an armchair beside the fireplace with a comforter draped around her.

He struggled to suppress a grimace.

"Hello," he said weakly.

Her eyes widened.

"You!" she barked, a nasty snarl on her face. "Potter, is it? Quite a shame, honestly, that I remember your name," despite himself, Harry couldn't help but agree. "What with all the nasty business you've been about with _your_ kind. You've got some nerve showing up here, boy!"

"He's here on my account," said a male voice.

Harry looked up and found his cousin, Dudley, standing against the doorway. If appearance was a sign of relatedness, then Harry and Dudley would never be related. Unlike Harry's thin figure, Dudley's figure was tall, large, and muscular. His hair was blonde and neat, in contrast to Harry's messy dark hair. His eyes, which were giving Aunt Marge a warning look, were bright and blue whereas Harry's eyes were green and dim. He certainly seemed to radiate an aura of authority and wisdom which he had gained from fatherhood.

"We're leaving now," said Dudley sternly. Harry suppressed a sigh of relief. "We'll be back before evening. Watch over Daisy for me, will you?"

Aunt Marge looked startled.

"W-why, of course," she stammered, beckoning the young girl towards her. "Anything for you, dear." Harry met Dudley's eyes, took the hint, and nearly scrambled out the door.

Closing the door, Dudley turned to Harry with an appraising look. His eyes lingered on his cousin's bags under his eyes, the scar on his cheek, and, if possible, his even more scruffy hair.

"You look like Hell, mate," he finally declared, a crinkle near his eyes.

Harry grimaced.

"Thanks, Dud," he said dryly. "Real subtle."

"Don't mention it."

Together, they descended down the three steps of the front porch and proceeded down the sidewalk. Harry turned to scan the houses, his eyes lingering on the children playing outside of their homes. It was strange to see people outside, especially in the midst of a war. Most people, particularly wizards, hid inside and rarely let their children out. But this neighborhood was considerably carefree, with little to no care about the darkness that lingered about. Not to mention, it was very different from the stiff and strict Privet Drive that Harry and Dudley had lived in for so long.

Harry shook his head and turned to Dudley.

"What exactly am I here for?"

Dudley shot him an exasperated look.

"Always straight to the point, aren't you?"

"I don't like to mess around."

"It's not like you've got anything going for you."

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Harry shot back. He almost felt insulted. If only Dudley knew what he was going through.

Dudley looked genuinely surprised. "Really? Finally found yourself a girl, then?"

Harry shook his head, his face flushed.

"I haven't got time for girls, Dudley."

"What's new?"

Harry glared.

"What was it that your friends used to call you again?" he taunted. He was satisfied by the red flush that crossed his cousin's features.

"Shut up, Harry!" Dudley shouted, whipping around to meet his cousin with a fist. Harry leaned away. "I didn't beef myself up for nothing, you know."

Harry straightened.

"Yeah, well," Harry muttered begrudgingly. "Where I'm from, size isn't everything."

He knew that Dudley didn't like to talk about magic. But he was a man. He couldn't just let Dudley step on his pride like that. Sure, he was thin. Sure, his fist was the size of a Knut. But it didn't mean that he couldn't send Dudley crashing through the streets with the flick of his wand.

"I could snap that stick of yours, and you'll be nothing," Dudley threatened, his muscles clenched under his shirt. As if daring his cousin to challenge him.

Harry blinked.

"Fair enough," Harry muttered. Then, he added softly. "Big D."

"Shut up!"

Harry snickered.

Though they didn't have the most friendly conversations, Harry still appreciated the distraction that accompanied Dudley. Though it annoyed him to no end that Dudley refused to discuss magic, it made Harry feel a little more normal. It made him forget about the stigma that he had come to associate with magic – the crimes that he had committed. Not to mention, almost no one ever recognized him in the Muggle world. Those that did would never believe that they had just met Harry Potter. They would simply gape at him, comment on how he looked so much like Harry Potter, and walk away.

Suddenly, a thought crossed Harry. He shot Dudley a furtive glance.

"Say, Dudley," he began, trying to sound casual. "You wouldn't happen to know about that family I used to live with, do you?"

Dudley frowned.

"You mean the ones you met at school? I thought you still lived with them."

Harry's heart skipped a beat.

Smooth, Potter!

"St. Grogory's, d'you mean?"

"No, the other one," Dudley said, frowning. His eyes darkened slightly. "What was it? Hoggy-what's it?"

Harry's lips suddenly felt dry.

"Hogwarts?" he asked weakly. He dearly hoped that it wasn't the case.

"Yeah, that's the one," Dudley nodded, his eyes narrowed his eyes. But Harry felt as if he had lost all of his blood. "You met them at school. Or one of their kids, I s'pose."

Harry cleared his throat.

"They wouldn't happen to have . . . red hair, do they?"

Say no, he thought desperately. Please say no.

"Yeah, the whole lot of them," said Dudley simply. Though his jaw clenched at the reminder of the last time that he had seen the family. "I remember they showed up in the fireplace. And once, they broke you out of your bedroom with some sort of a flying car. Mum and Dad were . . ."

But his voice trailed off at the mention of his parents.

"Nevermind," he said sternly, shaking his blonde head. He turned to his cousin. "Harry?"

But he startled when he looked around for his missing companion. His cousin had stopped dead in his tracks. Harry stood, frozen in place. His green eyes wide behind his glasses, his head bowed, his fists clenched at his sides.

So, it _was_ true? Everything that Weasley had said. He truly had lived with a family. He had truly had friends. He had truly attended a school named Hogwarts. This was proof that Voldemort had erased his memories. But why? Why would he? What did he hope to gain from it? What exactly had Harry done in his teenage years that made Voldemort feel so threatened?

But did any of it matter? Even if he had spent enough time with the Weasleys, even if they had considered him to be their son . . . He was still a criminal. Sooner or later, they would find out that he was not innocent. They would find out about his crimes. Just like Ron Weasley, that night in the Ministry. He hadn't denied it. They would want him arrested. They would want him punished.

"Harry," said a wary voice. "You all right, Harry?" Harry snapped his head to meet Dudley's eyes, his face pale and solemn. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine," he replied, his voice distant. He reached up to tug his glasses up his nose and gestured Dudley to keep walking.

"You sure you're all right?" Dudley asked in concern, meeting his cousin's pace. Harry gave him a warning glare not to push it. But Dudley shrugged. "You're hopeless."

Harry grimaced.

"You've no idea how true that is."

"Yeah. Well, you don't actually make a point in denying it."

"Fair enough," Harry muttered. It was rare for him to accept defeat. But, quite frankly, he didn't even know who he was at the moment. He decided to let it slide for now. "So how are you?"

"Trying to weasel your way out of it?"

"I'm trying to be nice," said Harry indignantly.

Dudley snickered.

Finally, they arrived at the row of shops at the edge of the neighborhood. Harry looked around and found some sellers giving out hot chocolate to customers. Several children whipped past them, their parents panting closely behind them. Several people, mostly men twice Harry's size, waved and punched affectionately at Dudley. Harry wondered if he would blow away if they so much as breathed on him.

"Well," Dudley interjected, a slight bite in his tone. "If you count divorce as anything memorable. Then, yeah. I've been good."

Harry blinked.

"She ditched you?" asked Harry.

He had met Dudley's wife. She had seemed decent enough to him, but he guessed that he shouldn't have judged her too soon.

" _I_ ditched her," he corrected, his voice thoughtful. Not the least bit bitter, which prompted Harry's suspicions. "Caught her cheating with another bloke. You'd think with a kid on our hands, she'd actually try for a bit of decency." He shook his head.

Harry gave him a solemn look.

"Sorry to hear that," he said seriously.

And he meant it. Sure, he had been taking the mickey out of Dudley all day. But he still sympathized with him. Though he had never experienced it, divorce was not something to be taken lightly.

"Don't be," Dudley shook his head. "Happened a month ago. Left me the girl. Didn't care much for a goodbye. I'm over it, anyway."

Harry stayed silent. He didn't know what to say. He was inexperienced with relationships. He had never bothered himself with one. It wasn't that no one interested him (though it was hard for him to find interest in anyone), he still lived with Voldemort. He didn't think it was wise to drag anyone with his troubles. Not to mention, his dark side often kept him too preoccupied with his thoughts – his guilt, to even begin to _consider_ anyone else.

Not to mention, he was still a prisoner. He hardly knew anyone.

"In here," said Dudley, startling Harry out of his thoughts.

He was holding the door of a restaurant open. Harry frowned, muttered a small 'thanks' and stepped in. As soon as he entered, he was greeted with the delicious smell of pasty and bacon that, quite strangely, seemed to boost his appetite. There were several seats and couches tucked along the walls. It seemed to have a yellow, warm glow that gave it sort of a peaceful air to it.

Harry raised an eyebrow and glanced at Dudley.

"Dinner, really?" Harry said dryly. Dudley looked sheepish. "Is there something you want to say to me?"

Harry puffed when Dudley elbowed him roughly. He felt as if his breath had been knocked out of him.

"I'll have more to say to you if you don't shut your trap," Dudley threatened. Harry simply shot him a glare and rubbed at his side. Irresistibly, he wondered if a simple poke in the side by Dudley would break Harry's ribs.

Deciding that he didn't want to know, he followed Dudley to a quiet corner of the room. To his relief, no one seemed to be gaping at him or even paying attention to him at all. He simply blended in with the people. But soon, they sat down and ordered their meal. And for the first time in days, Harry really did eat this time. He tried to avoid the impression that he was starving by biting into his meal slowly, but the effort actually proved difficult. He didn't have that nauseous feeling this time. He was too distracted by his surroundings and by what Dudley was saying that he actually forgot about his crimes–and or even all of Magic–for once.

Harry actually found himself feeling grateful to his cousin.

But soon, Dudley fell silent. And Harry shifted his attention to the people around him. But he certainly didn't miss the furtive looks that Dudley was throwing at him.

"Hey, Harry," Dudley began, a little too casually in Harry's opinion. Harry merely looked at him from above the rim of his coffee mug. "Anyone ever caught your interest?"

Harry resisted the urge to spit out his coffee. He dearly hoped that Dudley wasn't going to steer the conversation into _that_ direction.

He swallowed difficulty.

"Er–what?"

"You know, like . . ." said Dudley, waving a hand distractedly. Something was off about him. He looked too nervous to Harry. "Ever had, you know, _stirrings_ for someone . . .?"

Harry blinked.

"Stirrings?" he asked, befuddled. He placed his mug down on the table. "You mean–like . . . _feelings_?"

"Yeah. Sort of like that."

Harry was gobsmacked. What the Hell was Dudley on about? Since when did he care about Harry's love life, anyway?

"Er–no," Harry said slowly, feeling the heat rising to his cheeks. He tugged at his coat nervously, "Why d'you ask?"

"Well, you see that girl over there?" asked Dudley, pointing towards the corner of the room. Harry followed his finger and squinted into the distance.

"Which one?"

"The attractive one."

Harry squinted and tried to suppress an alarmed look. The only women that lingered in that corner were a bunch of elderly ladies with shawls around their head. The youngest one looked around fifty years, at least. Surely Dudley had better taste than that?

At least, Harry hoped so.

"Er–the one by the window?"

Dudley exhaled in frustration.

"No. The waitress, you dolt."

"What about her?"

"Well, don't you think she's attractive?"

Harry stared at the woman. She was slightly plump and round around the hip area. She had curled brown hair that fell to her shoulders and large blue eyes smeared heavily with make-up. Her dress seemed deliberately tight around her chest, and she was laughing and slapping the shoulders of the men around her. She seemed a little too flirty in Harry's opinion.

But what caught Harry's attention was not her features or even her hour-glass figure. It was the large, hairy mole that looked about the size of a Snitch just below her lips. It looked a giant fur-ball that, not what a cat would spit out, but rather choke on instead. If Harry could spot it from across the room, then it was definitely big.

"Er–I s'pose," Harry said weakly, trying to shake the image of the mole from his head. He turned to narrow his eyes at Dudley. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," Dudley said offhandedly.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"You don't _fancy_ her, do you?"

"Well–Actually, I–I'm sort of–"

"Besotted?" Harry asked dully.

"Besotted?" Dudley sputtered. "No, of course not!" Harry gave him a bored look. Dudley sighed and said grudgingly. "Oh, all right. Damn you."

"Well, are you going to pounce or what?"

"Well, that's just it. You see–"

But as Dudley stuttered over his words, everything suddenly clicked. Harry finally realized why Dudley was acting so strangely. Why he suddenly had interest in Harry's love life. Why he was asking such awkward questions. Furious, Harry leaned forward on the table and resisted the urge to blast Dudley into the next century.

"You didn't invite me in here for a little _bonding_ session, did you?" he hissed in a dangerously low tone.

Dudley looked sheepish. He leaned away from Harry.

"No, I didn't–"

"A little 'get-together, Harry'–"

"Hear me out–"

"I should've _known_ better–"

"Are you _finished_?"

Harry shot him a death glare.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't just leave you here right now."

"Oh, come on. Pity a man, won't you?"

Harry glared.

"I find that quite hard at the moment."

"I'll make it up to you, I swear," Dudley pleaded.

"I'm not acting as your wingman!" Harry said hotly, earning strange looks from the people around him.

But he didn't care. He felt blackmailed. He felt _cheated_. He should've _known_ that Dudley did not call him out here out of the goodness of his heart. He should've _known_ that he was being stepped on.

"Oh, come on. You're smooth, aren't you? You can talk to women better than I can."

Harry looked outraged.

"I wasn't the one in a relationship!"

Dudley shot him an exasperated look.

"At least you were never _in_ one," he emphasized, rolling his eyes. "I _lost_ one. That's twice as worse," Harry shook his head. "Come on, Harry. Just this once. For old times sake."

Harry shot him a withering look.

"One time. That's it."

Dudley grinned.

"Thanks, Harry," he slammed the money on the table and stood up. He crossed the table and dragged his cousin by the elbow. "Let's go."

Harry blinked. He jerked his arm from beneath his grip.

"Why can't we just call her here?" he demanded, feeling rather annoyed.

"We're men, you idiot. We'll meet her there."

Harry looked bewildered. But Dudley grabbed the back of his coat and steered him through the crowds. Harry almost felt like if he was part of a dog-show, his glasses slipping from his nose. He tried to stall the meeting with his heels, but Dudley shoved him roughly into the spotlight. As they arrived, Dudley let him go. Irritated, Harry shoved his glasses up his nose, straightened his coat, and shot Dudley a fierce glare.

Dudley, too, shot him a warning glare.

Harry blinked at the sight of the whole table of men that had fallen silent. The ruckus that Harry and Dudley had caused had apparently attracted their attention. The woman, too, seemed confused.

"Excuse me, Madam Hilmey," Dudley began, a bold grin on his face. Harry almost resented him for it. "You don't mind a quick word, d'you?"

The woman blinked.

"All right, then," she shrugged, a small smirk at her lips.

She winked slyly at the men before she accompanied the two cousins away from the table. Once again, Dudley shoved Harry in line as they neared a relatively empty corner. Harry honestly didn't know why Dudley insisted on his company. He was doing fine without him.

But then, he wasn't quite sure about that thought anymore as the woman turned to them with a bored look.

"Well?" she asked haughtily. "What've you got for me, champs?"

Harry grimaced.

"Well," Dudley flushed under her piercing stare. He tried to shrug it off with a smile. "How about we start by introducing each other? I'm Dudley," she scanned him with a bored look on her face. "And this is my cousin, Harry." He gestured to his companion.

"Hello," said Harry weakly.

He didn't even bother to look at her. His gaze was fixed on the setting sun outside. He just wanted them to hook up so he could leave.

But the woman froze. Her eyes widened dramatically at Dudley's companion.

"Cousin, eh?" she breathed. Her eyes lingered pointedly on Harry's scruffy hair and his rather smart look. Harry, feeling tension in the air, gave her a wary look. But as soon as she met his eyes, she exclaimed. "Great Scott!"

She shoved Dudley aside rather roughly and took his spot. Harry was suddenly overwhelmed by a strong whiff of perfume that almost made him feel like choking, as she leaned towards him – a little _too_ close, in his opinion.

"And what is a fetching young man such as yourself doing in these corners, hmm?" she said slyly, a hand at her hip.

He gaped.

Fetching?

 _Him_?

"Excuse me?" he sputtered, leaning away from her.

He tried hard not to stare too long at her mole. But with a mole that large, it was almost impossible to avoid it. But what the Hell was going on, anyway? She wasn't supposed to be attracted to _him_! She was supposed to be attracted to Dudley.

She giggled – rather annoyingly in Harry's opinion.

"You don't get around much, d'you? You must be new around here."

From above her curled brown-hair, Harry watched helplessly as Dudley stormed out of the shop.

"No, I haven't–" he stammered, trying desperately to escape.

"I can show you around, if you know what I mean," she winked, pinning him to a corner.

Harry tried to lean away as the woman stepped too close to him. She almost leaning against his chest. But all he could see from her were the frizzy hairs poking out of that giant mole of hers. It was like a fly had died there and decomposed on her chin. He struggled to suppress a disgusted look.

"I'm sorry – what?" said Harry, feeling slightly harassed. Then, he stated firmly. "I'm not interest –"

"Friday night, then?"

Harry gaped at her.

Was this woman _stupid_?

"No!" he barked, shoving her away roughly. "Look, I've got to go. My cousin–" Without glancing back, he scrambled to the door.

"See you, then," she shouted after him.

Harry threw a dirty glare before he left.

"Dudley!" Harry shouted into the open, shoving aside the crowd. "Dudley! Oh, bloody Hell."

Several onlookers glanced at him before shaking their heads. Harry was suddenly left feeling very foolish. Frustrated, he shook his head and thrust his hands in his pockets, cursing profusely under his breath. Every-time he tried to do something good, it backfired miserably.

"Bloody women!" he muttered, quietly fuming as he walked. "They should have bloody tentacles in place of their arms. That would explain why they're so bloody _clingy_."

He earned quite a few strange looks. He even received distasteful stares from his opposite gender – well, those that caught what he was talking about, at least. But Harry didn't care. Give him a spell, and he'd understand it. Give him a dragon, he'd get along with it. But give him a bloody _girl_ , and he was left boggled.

What was it about girls that made them so– _difficult_?

And as if he didn't have enough on his mind without that thick-headed woman making it worse. He had been on good terms with his cousin for almost seven years. But he wondered anxiously if he had just lost it all. Just because of a stupid misunderstanding.

Now, not only did he have Voldemort to worry about, _and_ the prisoners, _and_ the Weasleys, _and_ his victims, and even his own bloody _life_ , but he also had to worry about how to regain Dudley's trust again.

"Great," he muttered. "Just what I needed. More stress, as if I haven't already got enough to deal with. Well done, Harry."

But as Harry looked for an empty corner to Apparate, he noticed a burnt and isolated shop sandwiched between two other shop. He back-tracked and looked around to see if anyone had noticed the shop at all. To his surprise, no seemed to care about it. In fact, no even glanced at it. Not the people passing, nor the people standing next to it. Frowning, he glanced at the shop where his reflection showed on the glass before shrugging and walking away.

But as he walked away, he glanced back again. Something seemed odd about the shop. Not only about the reaction of the people, but Harry could feel something–a sort of energy–vibrating from it.

No, he thought firmly. He was not going near it.

He turned to walk away. Then, he glanced back again. Then, he shook his head and walked away again. But then, he turned back again. Then, he walked away again. Then, he growled in frustration and turned back. It was like a devil and an angel were sitting on his shoulders, arguing endlessly in his head.

I _shouldn't_.

But I _should_!

I've got enough on my plate already.

It won't hurt to try.

Curiosity is not a sin!

No, but the consequences of it can be.

What's the worst that can happen?

Anything can happen.

"Oh, damn it all," he muttered, marching over to the shop. He glanced around to see if anyone was following him before he entered.

And besides, he had been through worse.

As soon as he stepped in, he was greeted with a burnt remains of what previously looked a bustling shop. Black spots outlined the lopsided bookshelves along the walls as well as the counter. The chairs behind the counter were overturned, some missing legs. Broken glass from the overturned lamplights fanned the tiled floor. Harry could even smell the ashes and remains of the room as if it had been burnt yesterday.

"Can it be? The famous Harry Potter," hissed a voice. Harry startled and looked around. "You've got quite the reputation, haven't you, Potter? Up here."

Harry looked up and found a black-haired man wearing spectacles sprawled along a cracked pillar on the ceiling. He looked transparent. Harry could see the outlines of the ceiling above him from right through him. But the man seemed to be looking at Harry with a hungry gleam in his grey eyes, his chin resting casually on his hand.

Harry frowned.

"You know who I am?"

The man smirked. He tossed himself backwards and let himself float to the bottom, his robes fanning around him as if he was some sort of bat.

"Oh, after your fiasco in the Ministry," the man began, his voice mocking. "I dare say, there is not a wizard alive that doesn't know who _you_ are. Books about you have returned to the shelves. Newspapers, articles, journals!–all discuss the return of the famous Harry Potter. You're quite the legend, Potter. With more backbone than the entire Wizarding World combined. Of course, you don't like to bask in that glory, do you, Potter?"

"Not really," said Harry coldly.

"No? But imagine it," said the man, his eyes glassy from lust. "The glory - the riches! – that you would gain from writing your story. A dead man's dream! Think of the gold that follows after. You'd be remembered as an extraordinary wizard, you know. One of the greatest after Dumbledore. Think all of the tales and adventures that you've been through. Dragons, Basilisks, Merpeople. Enough content to make a poor man rich! Think of all the fame that you'll receive."

But Harry was growing annoyed by the minute. Not only was the man so engrossed in his material worth, but he was getting nothing from being here. And the last thing he needed was an autobiography that, instead of mitigating the stares that he got from being Harry Potter, would only elevate it. As if he needed more fame. He couldn't even step into the Wizarding world at all anymore because of it.

Fame was the _last_ thing he needed.

Harry had enough.

"No, thanks," said Harry coolly. "I think I've got enough fame to keep my head inflated." He had just turned on his heels to exit the shop when the man's next statement halted him in his tracks.

"Nice locket you've got there, Potter."

Harry stilled, his hand hovering an inch above the door handle. Pursing his lips, he turned to the man. The latter was sprawled against the counter, his hand tucked behind his head. Looking, for all intents and purposes, quite bored.

"Must've cost you a fortune," the man hummed, eyes glued on the webbed ceiling. "Quite unfortunate, isn't it? That it's a fake."

"How did you–?"

"Caught your attention, didn't I, Potter?" spat the man, hovering an inch over the floor. "But perhaps you should resume where you left off?"

Harry swallowed his irritation. But instead of leaving like the man implied, he stepped on his pride, stepped further into the room, and shot the man an expected look.

"I'm listening."

The man grinned.

"You've got cheek, Potter. I like it."

But Harry had enough. No more distractions. "How d'you know about the locket?" he asked brusquely. He fixed the man with a steel gaze in his eyes.

"Oh, I don't know anything _about_ the locket," he replied, admiring his fingers. "What I _do_ know, however, is its original owner."

But the man did not elaborate. Instead, he twirled idly in the air, as if bored by the conversation. Harry wondered if the man was deliberately stalling for the sake of being dramatic.

Harry raised a brow.

"And?"

"Ever caught a fish, Potter?"

Harry blinked.

"What?'

"Answering a question with a question?" sighed the man. "What is a circle without an end?"

"Are you winding me up?"

The man smirked.

"Touch the walls, Potter," he said, gliding towards the walls.

Harry offered him a suspicious stare but complied. To his surprise, the room shifted and brightened until its burnt and shabby form disappeared. In its place, stood a tidy room, with several bookshelves along the counter, jagged and webbed ceilings that seemed oddly fitting for such a place, and several lamplights perched along the corners that illuminated what was previously a dark room.

"Not unlike a fish in water," breathed the man, staring wistfully across the room. "it latches onto whatever offers it sustenance, whatever offers it benefit–whilst disregarding the consequences of the hook attached. Do you understand now?"

Harry scowled.

"No."

"Perhaps a hint, then?" he asked idly, sitting cross-legged on a nearby chair. "The original owner of that locket, Potter, and the cause for this shift was an employee at Borgin and Burkes. Oh, lay aside your prejudice, Potter," he snapped when Harry gave him a dark look. "Borgin and Burkes did not always suffer from the stigma of being associated with Dark Magic. It was once a bustling shop, made for ordinary witches or wizards. It was originally designed to sell antiques–jewelry, house decorations, and several harmless items. That is, until that day when a charming young lad offered to work here."

"So . . ." Harry said slowly. "You're saying–?"

"–that this is the Muggle adjacent to Borgin and Burkes," the man nodded. "Makes sense, doesn't it? With Diagon Alley right around the corner."

"Then, the man that worked here before–?"

" –was the man responsible for its demolishment," he nodded. "Quite astute, Potter."

Harry narrowed his eyes, studying the man.

"And you're here because–?"

"You called me here."

Harry looked surprised.

"I did?"

"Oh, yes," said the man, amused. His robes draped around him as he floated. "Funny, isn't it? How we often forget our remarkable ability to forget things."

Absentmindedly, Harry approached a spinning Spindle and tried to lay a finger on it to stop it. To his surprise, he found that his hand passed right through it.

He withdrew his hand.

"Are you a ghost?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the object.

"A memory," the man replied wistfully. "Left to wander aimlessly–like litter on the streets. To the passive observor, I am but an empty room. But to the knowledgeable man, I am but a lonely shop owner–left to fill in the emptiness of the abandoned shops."

"Why are you here, then?" asked Harry. "Haven't you found other places? Why are you here in the Muggle world?"

"Confused, aren't you, Potter?" taunted the man, his hands tucked behind his head. "Perhaps you should consult your other self regarding the matter. I dare say, he knows me better than a doe knows her fawn."

Harry flinched.

"What self?"

"Denial," he said idly, waving a hand offhandedly. "Blatant disregard for the truth. Shame, isn't it? I expected better from the Chosen One."

"What are you on about?" he asked, his heart racing. "I'm . . . _me_ , aren't I?"

"Oho," chortled the man, whipping past Harry. "You'd love that, wouldn't you, Potter?"

"What do you mean?"

The man smirked. "Perhaps that locket of yours might _jog your memory_ , if you pardon my expression. The original owner of it, that is."

Harry touched the part of his chest where the locket was buried beneath his scarf.

"The Heir of Slytherin?"

"Ah, there's the silver lining. Go on, Potter."

Harry's eyes drifted across the room, his mind racked with thought. "Then, the man that worked here before . . .?" he said slowly. "Was he . . . Tom Riddle?"

The man glided. His feet to the ceiling.

"You've got a sharp mind, Potter," the man gave him an upside down impressed look. "Must be why Dumbledore holds you in such high regards. Still does, actually. Much to the dismay of your counterpart."

Harry frowned.

"You think there's something that lives inside of me?" he asked uneasily.

"What _I_ think?" scoffed the man, gliding upright again. "No, Potter. It is not the matter of what _I_ think, but what you already know."

"I don't understand."

The man hummed. "How do you know that name, Potter?"

Harry frowned, his gaze drifting to the aloft window. Where _had_ he heard of Tom Riddle? Sure, he knew the name. But he didn't how he knew it.

"I don't know," he replied honestly.

The man narrowed his eyes. "You don't know?"

"It's hard to explain," said Harry defensively.

"Is it? Have you ever heard of it, Potter?"

"No."

"Ever read it anywhere?"

"No."

"Then, surely _you_ don't know. But _he_ certainly does."

Harry blanched.

"Who?"

"The one who has called me here tonight," he breathed, his eyes gleaming behind his spectacles. "The echo of his memory."

"You're part of Voldemort's memories?"

The man flinched.

"Don't say that name!" he hissed.

Harry ignored him. His mouth felt like rubber. "So, you're here because . . ." said Harry slowly, his voice distant. "he's a part of me?"

The man smirked.

"Caught on, have you? Took you long enough."

Harry's gaze drifted along the room. His eyes stilled at the books that were shuffling into place onto the shelf in front of him. It was not as surprising to him that Voldemort had lived inside of him. Voldemort had often made that very clear in his long, drawn out discussions. Harry often never acknowledged it, though a part of him was aware of it. But even the thought of it all made him feel very nauseous.

"Then . . ." he said, frowning. "am I inside of his memories?"

"Well, yes . . ." he said idly. "and no."

"Explain."

"It is rather like a Pensive, but different still. But instead of watching the memory, one can actually participate in it. Not unlike how Portraits work. It is not the person themselves that you are speaking to. But rather, an echo of themselves. An echo of their core – their essence."

Harry frowned. "Would I find you in other shops as well? The empty ones, I mean."

"Well, not _me_ , per se," he said dully, gliding over the chair behind him. "But rather, the other owners of the shop. And it must meet the requirements."

"Which is?"

"It must be cursed, Potter. What happened here in the past was a devastating tragedy. A tragedy that seared the flesh off a man's back. A tragedy which I, quite unfortunately, condoned."

"You led him here? Tom Riddle, that is."

"Unknowingly? Yes. But perhaps you have already made your judgement about me? No? You see, Potter, how easy it is to stir a man? How easy it is to get influenced? How charming youths, such as Tom Riddle, easily swayed the hearts of countless of witches and wizards? Hardworking. Polite. Fresh out of school. Fresh out of youth. You might ask me, did I see the shift in the young lad? Did I, perhaps, detect a hint of insincerity–a hint of menace at all–in the young boy? Perhaps I did. But I denied it, Potter. I was deluded by his sharp appearance and his rather remarkable intelligence. Who could've imagined what would ultimately become of the boy?"

"What happened to him? What changed?"

"Changed? Oh, no. He was not a changed man, Potter. There was nothing that came later that wasn't already there before. Darkness was his essence–his core. It was always a part of him. But even I was foolish enough to ignore it. When the day came, when he came to me regarding a certain 'spell' that he promised would 'help the shop,' as he eloquently phrased it, I let him in. I gave him full reign over it. And I, too, suffered the consequences."

"What was it?"

"It was Dark Magic. The type that skins the flesh off your bones. It causes the victim's bones and organs to crush against each other, rather like being smashed under concrete. I was informed by dubious sources later that he had invented the spell himself. That day was a test trail of some sorts."

"They all died here? Including you?"

"Oh, yes. Rather unfortunate circumstances, aren't they? Of course, you would know better anyone how cruel life can be. Quite frankly, Potter, I'm quite startled by the fact that you're still standing upright after all this time. What with all you've been through, a common man would've caved under the pressure. Perhaps that reason alone is why Dumbledore prizes you above all others. His Golden Boy, as they say."

Harry's eyes darkened.

"Dumbledore would never accept what I've done. If he did, he'd doubt me, too."

"Doubt you?" he replied, astonished. He peeked his head out from over the shelf. "Dumbledore? Surely not. As far as I can hear from the shop down in Diagon Alley, Dumbledore was one of the few whose faith in you never wavered. In fact, after your fiasco in the Ministry, his faith, if possible, renewed. If anything, it is _you_ that is doubting his faith. I hear he defended you in the Ministry–"

"It's all an act," Harry interjected bitterly. "He only needs me to do his biddings," then, he clenched his fists and whispered. "He never cared for me."

The man frowned.

"Whatever ill-will you harbor against the man is between you and him. But you should seek Dumbledore's guidance, Potter. You don't realize it, but you are losing yourself. Mark my words, if you don't do something about this, you will find yourself in the same sticky end as the young lad that robbed my life. It is either your sanity or your morality, Potter."

"Well, I would've if they would answer my bloody letters," Harry said furiously. "I've tried sending them owls. They've never come back."

"Perhaps you are killing them."

Harry froze.

"What?" he breathed.

"Not willingly, of course," the man waved distractedly. "There is a part of you that cannot bear to betray your Master, is that right?"

"He's not my Master," Harry snapped. "I don't give a _damn_ about–"

"Raising your voice does not validate your claim, Potter," he interjected stiffly, gliding around the younger man.

Harry suddenly had an insane desire to hurt the man. To lash out. To wrap his hands around the man's throat. His vision became blurry, and his chest swelled. Lucky that the man was transparent. If not, Harry would have probably done it.

"I'm sure I would know if I was killing them," said Harry angrily. "It's not like I wake up every night with a ball of feathers over my head."

The man elevated himself slightly. He stared at Harry from beneath his nose.

"Perhaps you are erasing your memories."

Harry snapped. "Why would I?"

The man's lips curled. He glided backwards away from Harry.

"Precisely, Potter. Why would you?" he halted, leaning arrogantly against a pillar, observing Harry like he was his guinea pig. "Perhaps you simply fear the consequences of it. Perhaps you fear your other self. Perhaps you fear your own actions. And instead of confronting it, which any _noble_ person would've done, you simply erased it. After all, you must have a lot to deal with, haven't you? Why add more to your plate?"

Harry was trembling with fury. He was slowly losing control of himself.

"You would know, wouldn't you?" he hissed, his eyes flashing dangerously. "You seem to know me better than I know myself."

The man waved his hand offhandedly. "Oh, everyone knows you better than you know yourself," he then shot Harry a serious look. "You are _lost_ , Potter."

"And that gives you the right to make claims about me?"

"Ah, so you admit you are lost?"

"Would you believe me if I lied?"

The man frowned. He glided directly in front of Harry and looked at him dead in the eyes.

"Time is of the essence, Potter," he said in a low voice. "We've only been given a limited time to make our decisions. To grow as individuals. To learn from our mistakes. It is a trial – a test, to see how you will develop as an individual. You started off in a good path, but now you are treading a dangerous path. A far more sinister path. Mark my words, Potter, seek Dumbledore's guidance before it is too late."

And like that, the man disappeared and the room returned to its burnt and shabby form. Harry stood for a long moment, frozen in place in the room. He didn't know how long he stood there. But despite his irritation with the man, his words rang in his ear like funeral bells.

He knew, though he tried to deny it, that every word that the man had said was true.

* * *

A/N: I had too much fun with this chapter. Harry is so hopeless. Oh, and you can't get enough sarcasm. The man's identity will be cleared up in later chapters, so stay tuned.

Enjoy.


	11. Chapter 11: Order Troubles

_With his robes flapping behind him, the hooded figure strode along the corridors. Each step was purposeful. Some might even say pre-determined? After all, who, besides Albus Dumbledore, could possibly hope to challenge him? As he passed every torch, he flicked his wand to extinguish the lights. The snake around his shoulders hissed with pleasure as the corridors drenched in darkness. To his amusement, a scarlet-robed man turned the corner towards him._

 _"W-who's there?" asked the man, his hesitant footsteps echoing across the corridor. The dungeons were large, dark, and sturdy. No doubt, Nurmengard was one of the most secured prisons in the entire Wizarding World. The man clearly worked here._

 _Well, for now._

 _But nothing can stand his way._

 _A rustle of his robes was heard in the taciturn corridor. The scarlet-robed man looked alarmed. A black phantom suddenly crossed his vision. The Dark Lord swiftly appeared behind him. His eyes widened before he fell with a faint thud to the floor._

 _Pitiful._

 _Tucking his wand in his robes, he climbed the steps to the next floor. As he passed, however, the row of armored suits unsheathed their swords and pointed it towards him. Smirking, he flicked his wand lazily and forced them to reposition their swords to their own selves. A_ cling _rung throughout the dungeons, and they laid shattered on the ground._

 _At the end of the corridor stood a bulky, metal door. It was concealed tightly with large, enchanted chains around the knob._

 _The Dark Lord knew that he had arrived._

 _Flicking his wand in a complicated motion, he watched as the door sank slowly beneath the floor. As the dust effaced, his red eyes gleamed at the sight before him. A long, messy-haired man sat with his head bowed, his wrist wrapped in a thick chain from beside the wall. He didn't even acknowledge the open door. Instead, he seemed to be muttering to himself._

 _Resisting the urge to snort, the Dark Lord approached the figure and pointed a wand at him. As the wand came into his vision, however, Gellert Grindewald looked up slowly. For a long moment, he stared warily at the object._

 _"You know what it is that I seek," hissed the Dark Lord, his grip firm and unwavering._

 _Grindewald's lip curled, though his eyes were heavy-lidded. He averted his eyes, looking unfazed by the threats of the other man._

 _"Something far beyond the walls of this cell . . .?" he asked mocking. "Sorry to disappoint you, but you are interrogating the wrong person."_

 _The Dark Lord sneered._

 _"I will ensure your freedom if you will help me claim it."_

 _Grindewald raised a brow._

 _"You expect me to challenge the one responsible for my incarceration?"_

 _The Dark Lord's lip curled. "Perhaps," he said icily. "But you will not be alone. I will lend you my powers. Together, we can eliminate Albus Dumbledore and rule as one . . . with you as Minister."_

 _His eyes darkened slightly as he studied the figure before him. He looked suspicious._

 _"And what of Harry Potter?"_

 _The Dark Lord snapped. "What of him?"_

 _"He who has five times defied you . . ." he replied mockingly. "who possesses the power that the Dark Lord knows not. Surely you fear –"_

 _"I fear nothing!" hissed the Dark Lord. "Harry Potter remains locked away in a highly concealed cell where, I assure you, he will not interfere."_

 _"And yet, he continues to defy –"_

 _"_ Obey _," he interjected icily. "He no longer serves that senile old fool. He only serves myself."_

 _Grindewald gave him a long and hard stare._

 _"You are convinced of his loyalty?"_

 _"Never," he hissed. "But under certain_ conditions _, he serves me without fail."_

 _Grindewald paused, his haunted gaze drifting across the dark and musty cell. His gaze lingered pointedly on the skeletal remains of the guard leaning against a dark corner on the opposite side of wall. His blood was splattered across the vents on the wall. In his almost feline fury, he had killed the man and devoured his flesh in an attempt to mitigate his starvation. The Dark Lord could read all of these thoughts in his head like an open book. He could see that the man had foregone his humanity long ago. Harry wondered why he didn't feel repulsed just watching the man snap._

 _"Very well," he declared finally. "I will accept these conditions. But should he decide to interfere, you have my word that I will not, however, hesitate to kill him."_

 _The Dark Lord paused, looking slightly irritated._

 _"So be it," he affirmed icily. "You are to remain here until further notice. We mustn't prompt the suspicions of the Order. That is, not until our little_ friend _is fully assimilated."_

 _With a mad cackle, the Dark Lord exited the room with his cloak billowing behind him. He flicked his wand lazily and allowed the door to slam shut behind him._

As the door shut with a loud thud, Harry startled from his slumber. Breathing heavily, drenched in sweat, he shakily sat up. Once again, he resisted the urge to retch. He couldn't get the image of Grindewald ripping apart the flesh of the guard out of his head. Blinking out dark patches from his eyes, he looked around and found himself back at his cell. As usual, the room was dark and desolate. But as soon as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he looked up and frowned. The door to his cell was hung ajar. There was also a dark silhouette lingering beside it.

"Aw, did wittle Potty have a nightmare?" cooed a female voice. Through squinted eyes, Harry could only distinguish the blurred, curled edges of her hair. "Sorry to disappoint you, Potty, but I'm afraid my voice isn't soft enough for a lullaby."

"W-what?" he asked groggily.

With a faint sense of awareness, he drowsily patted the mattress down for his glasses. Frustrated, he found them and shoved them on. He looked up and found the loathsome figure of Bellatrix Lestrange leaning against the open door to his cell. An arrogant smirk plastered on her face.

"What's the matter, Potter?" she hissed, her arms crossed across her chest. "A snake bit your tongue? Why so tame today, hmm?"

Harry glared.

Swinging his legs over the bed, he stood up. He felt a rush of his satisfaction when he saw her stiffen. Her arrogant façade wilted slightly as he took two steps towards her. He almost towered over her.

"What do you want, Bellatrix?" he glared, trying to quench his anger. The last thing he needed in life was seeing his godfather's murderer as soon as he woke up.

Not to mention, the fact that he had only slept for an hour didn't help, either.

"Oh, I didn't know we were on first name associations, Potter," she sneered, looking faintly amused. "If I didn't know any better, I would think you've grown rather fond of me."

He gave her a dirty look as she cackled madly.

"You can laugh," he said stiffly. "I wasn't the one watching others sleep," he smirked at her aghast look. "Don't get too fond of me," he added.

"In your dreams, Potter," she hissed, straightening her robes stiffly. "I have come to inform you that the Dark Lord suspects you of treason –"

"What's new?"

She glared.

"He will wish to speak to you once he returns," she said icily. Harry vaguely recalled the events of his dream and scowled.

"And you thought it best to leave the door open for me until then?" He shot back, his eyes narrowed.

He knew what she was trying to do. She wanted to mess with him until Voldemort came back. Voldemort often never allowed anyone but himself to hurt Harry. After all, he needed his personal "assassin" healthy enough for him to accomplish his missions.

"You are wandless, Potter," she smirked. "You are of no threat to me."

"Yeah? Try me," he threatened, his eyes flashing.

Her confidence wilted. Instead, a flicker of fear appeared in her eyes before it vanished as fast as it appeared. If there was one good thing that he got from his crimes, it was the ability to inflict fear on the other Death Eaters. They knew what he had done. They knew what he was capable of. It was no longer an empty threat. Tossing one more glare at him, Bellatrix laid a hand on the door and shot him a pointed look.

"He will be returning shortly," she said coldly. "It's best not to keep him waiting."

Then, she stalked off, leaving the door open behind her.

Waiting until he heard the last echo of her footsteps, he stepped out of the cell and looked around. Nothing seemed amiss about the dungeon. Large, dark patches arched the corridors. It was like sinking into an endless pit and never stopping. Never illuminating. The only thing that reminded him that he was alive were the desperate cries of the other prisoners, begging to be released.

Sighing, Harry turned the corner and walked deeper into the dungeon with the intention of visiting Arthur Weasley. He wondered if the man was still alive. He hadn't seen the man for almost a week. The last time he had seen him, the man had been deathly pale, bony thin, and trembling. He was also losing the last bit of hair on his balding head. With only a week in, Harry thought that the Death Eaters were being a bit too harsh with the man. As if desperate for answers.

Harry assumed it was because of the man's associations to the Order.

Harry had pitied the man so much that he had privately cornered Kreacher. He had asked the elf to regularly send something light for the man to eat. To his dismay, Kreacher had returned and informed Harry that Weasley was not responding to anything that he sent him. In fact, as soon as he swallowed anything, he threw it all up the next bite.

Harry knew that the man was dying. He needed to act soon.

But he had been unable to visit the man. He didn't want to prompt the suspicions of Voldemort. He had remained locked in his cell for the entire week. He hadn't even visited Grimmauld's Place.

Judging by the events of his dream, Voldemort was still not convinced of Harry's loyalty. In fact, he had even admitted that he never would. Harry, of course, had been expecting that. After all, he hadn't given Voldemort a reason to trust him. He had warned Harry, before the attack on the Ministry, not to help the prisoners escape. He had caught him. Had punished him. Had even tortured him. But as soon as Harry healed back up, he betrayed him again by helping the young girl, Freya, escape.

But worried him was not that Voldemort did not trust him. It was the fact Voldemort had allied with Grindewald. The next most dangerous wizard alive. He wanted to break him out of prison. He was seeking something – something ominous. And Harry hadn't the slightest clue what it was.

Was it, perhaps, the same ancient artifacts that the Order had sought? Was it something like the locket or even the locket itself? But that didn't make sense to Harry. Why would Voldemort confront Grindewald if he was looking for objects that the Order was looking for? Other than his turbulent past with Dumbledore, Harry didn't know much about Grindewald. He didn't know the details of the man. He reckoned that he should start looking him up. Maybe a book at the library in Grimmauld's Place could help.

Finally, Harry reached the cell. He looked around for nearby Death Eaters before he turned to open the door.

His eyes widened at the sight.

Lying face-flat on the ground was a dreadfully thin, deathly pale, and trembling red-haired man. Harry spotted his cracked spectacles just a few inches away from his nose. The man had only the last bit of strands of hair in his almost completely bald head.

Harry rushed towards him.

"Hey," he called, flipping the man over on his back. "Hey! Weas – I mean, Arthur!" the man simply looked at him with glazed eyes. "Arthur!"

Instinctively, he reached his fingers to his neck. To his relief, he found a pulse, albeit a weak one. He assessed him for a moment, his eyes lingering on the dark patch of blood around his chest.

It was clear that they had left him to die.

But Harry quickly regained his composure. He wrenched the pouch away from his neck. He tore the fabric from his chest and began tending to the man. He knew he needed to act fast. He was lucky that Bellatrix had let him out early. Otherwise, the man would have been dead now.

Should he be grateful to her?

He didn't know.

After he finished, he cleaned the blood off the man and shifted back to sit against the wall. With a heavy sigh, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. After what seemed like an eternity, he heard a rustle of robes and snapped his eyes open. Slowly, he shuffled over to the man. The man was groaning in pain.

"Hey, what happened to you?" he asked in concern. But the man blinked in confusion. "Are you all right?"

Harry watched the turmoil of emotions cross the man. He was still trembling violently. He looked almost feverish and anguished as his eyes swept across the younger man.

"H-Harry?" he croaked, reaching out a hand. Harry gripped his fore-arm firmly and nodded.

"That's right."

"H-Harry," he stammered, almost feverish. "I-I c-can't feel m-my l-legs, Harry."

But Harry felt like he had been drenched in ice. The gravity of the situation finally hit him like a full-blown punch to the stomach.

"You-you're paralyzed?" he asked weakly.

It wasn't until he saw the tears fall from the man's eyes did he realize that he had been insensitive with the question. But he could hardly offer any words of comfort. A hallow feeling had settled into his stomach. What could he say to a man – a father, no less! – that could no longer walk again?

Instead, he simply tightened his grip on his fore-arm. But the gesture seemed to strengthen the man's resolve.

"Harry!" rasped Arthur. "Harry . . . Please, he knows . . ."

"Knows, what?" urged Harry. "What happened to you?"

"No . . . time," he breathed heavily. Harry had to lean forward to hear him. "Please . . . Order. He knows . . . He knows."

Harry flinched. Had Voldemort found out about the Order? Had he found who they are and where they were hiding? Did the man really sell them out? But he had promised not to. Had he broken his promise? Had he wilted under pressure?

Could anyone blame him?

"How can I help?" he asked, almost desperately. "I don't know where they are."

"Ron . . . 'Mione . . . Ministry . . . Please."

"But I can't _get_ into the Ministry," he said, frustrated. "They're after me."

"They . . . kill me . . .," he breathed, his eyes drooping.

Finally, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he fell unconscious. But Harry, frustrated, tried to shake him awake.

"Wait! Stay awake," he urged. "I – I need you to . . ."

His voice trailed off.

With a troubled look on his face, he stood up and looked down at the sprawled figure of the man. He knew that he shouldn't blame himself for not taking him to Grimmauld's Place sooner, but he did. He had chosen to keep the man here to avoid any suspicions from Voldemort. He knew that, if he had tried to take him back, Voldemort would know that it was him. He would think that Harry was supporting the Order.

But now, he had a chance of redemption.

To risk his own life, or even risk the possibility of receiving the Dementor's Kiss. Or just walk away and pretend that nothing ever happened.

A stab in his arm interrupted his thoughts. Hissing, he laid a hand on his arm until the pain faded. He studied the man for a moment before he reached into his robes to pull out a soft, thin material.

It was his Invisibility Cloak.

He hoped that he was doing the right thing by leaving it here. He draped it around the man, concealing him from view. He didn't think the Death Eaters ever thought to check up on someone they thought was already dead. They almost always left them to decompose in their cells.

Casting one final glance at the man, Harry made his decision.

* * *

Adjusting his hat, Albus Dumbledore landed upright on his feet. He looked up and found the impressive sight of the Order Headquarters in front of him. It was a fairly new mansion, more neat and welcoming than the recent one. Ever since Sirius Black's death, Grimmauld's Place had become fairly concealed. The Orders had lost access of the mansion since Sirius had left his home to his godson. The home was only accessible through Harry. Irresistibly, Albus wondered if Harry had ever learned of his inheritance.

Dismissing the thought, he approached the metal gate. In the center was the outline of a sphinx etched onto a star surrounding it.

As he approached, the star rotated around the sphinx.

"It is I," he proclaimed. "Albus Dumbledore!"

But the sphinx shifted until its mouth opened.

"What is your favorite jam flavor?" asked the sphinx, the outline of the star rotating around it. But as usual, Albus's eyes twinkled with amusement.

"Raspberry," he stated simply.

"Enter."

Albus heard the creak of the gates before they opened. He waited until they had shut behind him to walk across the path into the mansion. Two large fountains in the shape of Nifflers were situated at either side of the trail, their mouths spitting water. The walls were draped with banners of all four Hogwarts houses. To his amusement, he also caught a banner of the Chudley Cannons amongst the others.

As he approached the doors, however, he opened them only to find something blocking his path. He looked down only to find Hermione's cat, Crookshanks, standing against the doorway, blinking up at him.

Politely, he stepped aside, held the door open, and tipped his hat respectfully to the cat.

"After you," he said kindly.

The cat meowed.

With sort of a bewildered look, the cat scurried away. He struggled to suppress a chuckle. He remembered how unpleasantly affectionate Ron was with the cat.

He stepped into the hallway and hung his cloak on the peg next to the door. From his place, he could hear the bustle of conversation within the Order meeting room. With a pleasant air about him, he travelled left and entered, only to be greeted with collective cries.

"Albus!" they exclaimed.

He smiled.

"I assume you have all had a restful weekend," greeted Albus cordially. "What with after some of our _unfortunate_ circumstances," he glanced warily at George. "I would admit that it is, no less, well-deserved."

"Still breathing," said Alastor coolly.

"Yeah, losing an eye can't be that bad," said George, gesturing to his patched eye. "Really toughens a bloke, doesn't it, Mad Eye?"

Alastor grunted.

"Haven't we more pressing matters to discuss?" interjected Severus, mildly annoyed.

"Looks like someone's eager to leave," muttered George.

"You mean he's actually got other activities besides sun-bathing with You-Know-Poo?" teased Fred.

"Fred! George!" snapped Molly. "That's enough."

"Oh, Severus has quite the activities that he loves to indulge in his pastime," interjected Albus, a warm smile on his face. "One of them consists of grooming his new Persian cat that he happened to stumble on while –"

" _Thank you,_ Headmaster," Severus said stiffly over the roaring laughter from the Weasley side of the table.

" _Hem_ - _hem_ ," Minerva cleared her throat and glared at Albus.

"Ah, but where was I?" said Albus hastily. "Yes, yes. Onto more pressing matters, then. Where shall we start? Severus, if you may?"

"Of course, Headmaster," nodded Severus. "The Dark Lord is planning an assault on Fraisdaill Village –"

"The Aurors've already got that covered," added Ron.

"It is _believed_ ," emphasized Severus, glaring. "to have an high influx of Muggle-born students planning to enroll in Hogwarts in the next few years."

"Thank you, Severus," said Albus. "Do you have any reason to believe that the Order has been comprised?"

"Not at the moment. The Dark Lord seems quite – _complacent_ , for a lack of better words. Ever since the assault on the Ministry, he has been feeling quite triumphant, though the reason, of course, remains unknown."

"It is as I feared," muttered Albus. "Of course, as brilliant as he is, he will be planning something omnious, something that none of us will come to expect. We must be prepared for the worst. I urge you all to exercise great caution, especially in the days to come. We cannot afford anymore accidents."

"Right you are, Dumbledore," nodded George.

"I'll be sure to remember the foul taste of Ron's earwax, then," grinned Fred, wiggling an eyebrow at his younger brother.

"Gross," muttered Ron, glaring.

"Yeah, no Death Eater can ever imitate that monstrosity," added George.

"Fred! George!" chided Molly. "Enough of this."

"Yes, Mum."

"And what of Harry, Severus?" asked Albus gravely. He pointedly ignored the tensions that arose in the room at the name.

"The Dark Lord is rather pleased by Potter's performance in the Ministry," said Severus, ignoring Ron's wince. "However, he is not convinced that there is a way to break the enchantment on Potter. What occurred between you and Potter is beyond his concern."

"Splendid. Though it is vital that we reestablish contact," said Albus. "We need him on our side."

"The Dark Lord is not convinced of Potter's loyalty," replied Severus. "His wand remains firmly in possession of the Dark Lord. And Potter himself remains locked away in a highly concealed cell. The Dark Lord suspects treason."

"I suspected as much," muttered Albus gravely. A part of him, however, couldn't help but feel proud that Harry continued to defy Voldemort after all these years.

"He's a prisoner?" breathed Ron, his blue eyes wide with horror.

Severus looked smug.

"Surely you didn't expect the Dark Lord to offer luxury to his greatest enemy? As feeble-minded as you are, Weasley, you should have expected as much."

"Watch it, Snape," Bill threatened.

"But can we trust him?" asked Tonks.

Albus shot her a piercing look.

"I trust Harry with my life."

"After all that he's done?" cried Minerva. "After all his crimes? He's killed – _innocents_. It isn't one or two lives he's claimed, Albus! But dozens and dozens over the course of ten years. These are not the actions of a common man!"

"You mustn't base your judgments about others based on what they appear to be, Minerva," Albus replied firmly. "It is true, though it pains me to admit, that Harry has been involved in these rather despicable crimes. But never was he willing. Never was it intended. He is possessed. And the best course action is to help him overcome Voldemort's influence rather than simply shun him aside."

"I understand your sentiment, Albus," interjected Molly. "But in case you've forgotten, Ginny was also possessed in her First Year. And, thank goodness, she never came _close_ to – "

"Mum –" Ginny warned.

"Quiet, Ginny," her mother snapped. Ginny simply scowled.

"Forgive me, Molly," said Albus firmly. "but it is not _I_ who has forgotten what occurred in her First Year. But rather, it is you that has forgotten who rushed into battle to save your daughter while disregarding his own life at the tender age of twelve years. It is you who has forgotten who saved your husband from Lord Voldemort's snake. The boy you once considered as one of your own . . ."

"That was past!" shrilled Molly, her eyes bulging. "Had I known, then, what would happen to him, I wouldn't _possibly_ –"

"I must back Molly up here, Albus," interjected Arthur, looking quite grim. "It is true that Po-Harry is responsible for all of these heinous crimes. Every man, whether good or bad, is capable of good deeds. Whether he or not he has committed good deeds in the past is irrelevant to the discussion. Perhaps we should focus only on the actions at hand."

"Potter is responsible for helping the prisoners escape," Severus interjected dully. Albus felt a rush gratitude towards the Potion's Master.

"What?" several voices exclaimed.

"What prisoners?" asked Ron.

Severus looked bored.

"The Dark Lord keeps prisoners to convince them to join his ranks or perhaps torture them for relevant information. How or when Potter decides to release them is beyond my or the Dark Lord's knowledge."

"And what proof do you have to validate this claim?" asked Kingsley.

"Darcey Weatherborn, a Muggle-born student at Hogwarts," replied Albus calmly. "which I kindly forbid to be interrogated. She claimed to be captured by the Aurors and has since offered her memory of the incident of when she was rescued by, what she claimed to be, a dark-haired man. I watched the memory myself and have since confirmed this man to be, indeed, Harry Potter himself."

"Captured by the Aurors?" grunted Alastor. "What a load of rubb –"

"Not quite innocent now, are you, Alastor?" sneered Severus.

"Can we have a synopsis of the incident, Albus?" asked Kingsley.

"Certainly," nodded Albus. "She claimed to be captured by the Aurors and was since sent to live as a prisoner by the Death Eaters. However, she informed me that one of the men amidst the ranks of Death Eaters offered to help her and guide her out of the cell. Thereafter, she arrived by Floo-transport at Reddick Winfrey's home in the dead of the night."

"Can Winfrey be interrogated?' asked Alastor.

"Winfrey is dead," Severus declared. "He was found dead in his home a week after the incident. He was tortured to death by the Death Eaters. He was responsible for ranting on Potter, which ultimately led to a squabble between him and the Dark Lord. Just before the Dark Lord infiltrated the Ministry, perhaps we can say, that Potter was discovered to be rather incapacitated that night."

"Thank you, Severus," Albus interjected, a grave look in his eyes. "You are all blind to the truth. Harry remains the noble person that he was as a young boy. He is the last bit of hope that we have in fighting Voldemort. He has proven himself more than capable of fighting him, moreso than perhaps everyone in this room. It is appalling to me that you are all so quick to lay blame. This is precisely what Voldemort seeks. To treat Harry as the enemy. To regard the Chosen One on par with himself. Do you think that Voldemort did not wish to isolate Harry from us? To fear him for the man that he has become rather than the man he had always sought to avoid? No, it is better for him if Harry did not fulfill what was expected of him from the Prophecy. Harry needs our help. And we, too, are in dire need of his."

"Suppose you're right, Dumbledore," said Alastor. "What makes you think he won't sell us out? What makes you think these possessions, as you say, can be avoided?"

"Oh, they most certainly can be avoided, Alastor," said Albus wearily. "In fact, they could have been avoided ten years if I was not foolish enough to take action."

"How?" asked Ron.

"It is through Occlumency, Mr. Weasley. It is true, though you are free to disagree, that I am to blame for all the plights that Harry has experienced. Perhaps you remember his frequent headaches and nightmares that he received from his scar? Ah, yes. How unfortunate that it all could have been avoided had I, myself, taught Harry how to block it. How to prevent Voldemort from entering his mind. Had I perhaps taken the matters into my own hand . . . had I perhaps taught Harry Occlumency myself, then, this entire fiasco, as they say, would never have occurred."

"Then, what do we do if we happened to find him?" asked Neville. "The Ministry's put up a bounty for his capture. Should we bring him here instead?"

"Oh, you won't be finding Potter out of his cell anytime soon," Severus interjected, a curl in his lip. "What with Potter's loose tongue, I dare say, the Dark Lord would save himself a great headache if Potter remained behind bars."

"You'd love that, wouldn't you, Snape?" snapped Ron.

"He is a criminal and should be treated as such. Oh, don't place yourself on such a high pedestal, Weasley," snapped Severus when Ron gave him a dark look. "Unlike Potter's beloved friends, _I_ never doubted him. I simply loathed him from the start."

Ron stood up, trying to wrestle himself out of Hermione's grip.

"You know, Snape, I'm surprised you're not spitting grease out of that thick mane of yours."

"Ron!" snapped Molly.

"Real mature, Ron," said Ginny, rolling her eyes.

"Quite strange, isn't it?" sighed Percy. "How quick we can instigate quarrels without Death Eaters involved?"

"Come off it, George," breathed Fred from beside his brother. "Did I hear that right?"

"Most definitely, Monsieur Fred," said George, throwing a look of admiration at his brother. "Our stick-up-the-arse Percy's just cracked a joke."

"Appalling," muttered Percy.

"Think of the cauldron bottoms, Perce."

"They can't be sheen and spotless if you go around acting like the infamous Weasley twins."

"Corrupting the innocents, aren't we, George?"

"Staining the sheen and shiny bottoms. Oh, the horror! Report it at once, Sir!"

Laughter erupted at the comment.

"Children both inside and outside of Hogwarts," muttered Minerva stiffly, glaring at the twins. "Merlin help me, I've grown too old for such a thing."

"Don't retire now, Minnie!" laughed Tonks. "Teddy wants to meet his Mum's old Transfiguration Professor."

"Fancy that. The spawn of Nymphadora is exactly what she needs."

"Oi! Watch it, Mad Eye!" snapped Tonks, turning to her husband. "Remus, defend me."

"But perhaps we've strayed far from the topic at hand?" asked Remus firmly. Tonks glared at him.

"Always the rational one, aren't you?" said Tonks, crossing her arms.

"Remus is right," said Hermione, her eyebrows creased. "How do we find Harry?"

"You don't, silly girl," Severus interjected, his face drawn into a scowl. "If he's willing, _he_ will find _us_. If I'm not mistaken, Potter has already proven himself capable of breaking out of his cell. It is possible that he has broken out as we speak. It is not known, however, when or how he decides to leave his cell, but there is no doubt that he has found a way."

Some of the Order members shifted uncomfortably at the thought.

"But his memories have been erased, haven't they?" asked Ron uneasily. "How can he find us? He doesn't know who we are."

"He knows the Headmaster," Severus responded in a bored tone. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "He will want to speak to him."

Albus nodded.

"He will want the truth," said Albus wearily, looking much older than his years. His worried countenance emphasized the wrinkles on his face.

Of course, Harry would always want answers. He knew, back in the Ministry, that Harry had something that he wanted to say to him. That was the reason why he stayed behind after he sent the Death Eaters off. Why he had been hesitant to leave until the Aurors had forced him to. Albus's heart wrenched when they parted ways, knowing that Harry had lost the last bit of hope in the Ministry. He had always been a curious one; if not entirely obsessed for answers. Albus had hoped that the young man would seek his guidance after that, but he had yet to hear anything from his former student. Not an owl. Not a letter. Not even a Patronus.

So engrossed in his grief, he vaguely recalled dismissing the Order meeting. Molly promised a feast for the Order members, in which they all stayed. Even Albus, himself, had stayed in a fruitless attempt to distract himself from his guilt. However, as he listened quietly to the conversations, one of the discussions stood out like a sore thumb. Albus tuned into the conversation between Alastor and Arthur.

"Quite the sensitive bladder you've got there, Arthur," said Alastor, a little too casually in Albus's opinion. "Bathroom break every hour?"

Alastor had both eyes fixed on the man. Arthur, however, elicited a chuckle as he returned to his seat next to Molly. He then draped an arm around his wife, which seemed a bit unusual to Albus. He could hardly eat his dinner with his arm around his wife. Moreover, he was using his left hand to lift his spoon, though Albus knew from prior experience that Arthur was right-handed. Not to mention, Arthur never showed outright signs of affections save for a kiss on the cheek.

Something was wrong.

"Oh, what can I say, Alastor?" chuckled Arthur. Though Albus detected a hint of nervousness in his tone. "I've grown too old, haven't I? I s'pose it's time to pave the way for the next generation."

"Oh, Arthur!" admonished Molly, looking rather alarmed. "Honestly."

"And yet, it's only occurred recently . . ." said Alastor, eyes narrowed. His large blue eye was darting madly over the other man.

"Just _what_ are you suggesting, Alastor?" snapped Molly. "We're lucky he's even alive after the horrible Death Eater assault in the Ministry."

"Oh, yes," sneered Alastor. "One elderly man against four skilled Death Eaters. I'd bet the arms and legs I have left to know that would never happen."

"You're saying our dad's a fake?" demanded Fred.

"He might be not be as skilled as you are," glared George. "but strength isn't about how many Death Eaters you've tossed in Askaban, Mad Eye."

"Oh, don't you give a hoot about him, Arthur," reassured Tonks, helping herself to gnash. "Mad Eye's just being his paranoid self."

"Don't say I didn't warn you," muttered Alastor. Though he didn't look convinced. Both eyes remained firmly on Arthur.

But as Albus sat silently, he also kept a watchful eye on Arthur. There was no doubt that there was something oddly suspicious about him. But he couldn't exactly accuse a man without evidence. Especially not a man that had seven children and his wife to vouch for him. In the end, however, he decided to privately corner Alastor. Beneath the table, he took the coin that the Order used to communicate and rearranged the letters. Alastor startled and glanced at him warily.

But Albus stood up first.

"Leaving so soon, Albus?" asked Molly, passing dishes along the table. But Albus bowed respectively.

"I'm afraid I have more urgent matters to attend to," he said politely, tipping his hat slightly. "Though I do not minimize your hospitality, Molly, which I am sure was quite pleasant. Take care of yourselves."

At last, he bade them all a pleasant farewell. However, his good-natured demeanor wilted as he stepped outdoors. Scanning the yard, he approached the smelly broom shed that the Weasleys had built and stood beside it. He waited patiently for Alastor's company. Finally, the latter emerged, limping towards him.

"Do you have any reason to believe that Arthur is not what he appears to be?" asked Albus, his blue eyes fixed on a gnome gnawing at a bone.

"Only a guess," replied Alastor, his blue eye zooming across the yard. "But a thumpin' good one at that."

"Very well," he nodded. "It's best to keep a sharp eye on him, then."

"Already got your back, Dumbledore."

"I trust your judgments, old friend."

Alastor's eye swiveled in its socket until both eyes rested on Albus. He seemed to be wrestling with himself over something. Albus thought it best to keep silent until he voiced it.

And he did.

"Heard about the fiasco in Nurmengard, did you?"

Albus looked grave.

"Ah, yes," he muttered, rather bitterly. "It seems that Voldemort is seeking an alliance with Gellert Grindewald. It is my guess that he is after the Elder Wand."

"And if it so happens that they manage it, you think there's any chance of stopping them?"

Albus gave him a piercing look.

"Where the shadows lie, there is light always."

"Enough with your wise talks, Dumbledore!" barked Alastor. "You know you can't take them both. You haven't only got one to deal with now, you've got two after your head. What makes you think you can take them on this time?"

But Albus's thoughts drifted. He recalled the incident back in the Ministry when he had stood shoulder to shoulder with his former student – with Harry. Both with their wands aloft at their sides. Both exuding authority and leadership over their respective followers. Both standing against the Minister of Magic. Albus's heart swelled in pride at the thought.

He knew that Harry only needed a bit more guidance before he could fully take his position as the official leader of the war.

With pride, he stated.

"I am not alone."

Alastor glared. But to Albus's relief, he relented.

"You know, some people might think you're a crackpot old fool," he grunted, a bite in his tone. But Albus suppressed a chuckle.

"And what do you think, Alastor?"

Alastor shot him a look. "Codswallop, in my opinion."

Albus smiled. He tipped his hat.

"Alastor," he bowed respectively. "Your servant."

Then, he was off.

* * *

His eyebrows furrowed, Harry stood outside of Lord Voldemort's throne room with a uneasy feeling about him. His meeting with Arthur Weasley had occupied most of his mind. He wondered if Voldemort would try to read his mind for more information about the man. He had also tried to think of ways that he could enter the Ministry, but he couldn't quite think of anything right now. Bellatrix had informed him that Voldemort suspected him of betrayal. He wondered anxiously if Voldemort would punish him tonight.

Breathing deeply, he prepared himself for the worst and opened the door.

Warily, Harry entered the room. What he found as he entered startled him. In the center of the room, Voldemort stood surrounded by three hooded Death Eaters, the nearest one whispering furiously to him. He noticed the other two, Rookwood and Avery respectively, looked amused, their lips curled into smirks. They looked smugly at Harry. But Harry did not meet their gazes. His gaze was fixed on the figure in the center.

There was no doubt in his mind that something was wrong.

Something was terribly wrong.

In the center, Voldemort stood. In all of his years spent with Voldemort, Harry had never realized how intimidating the man looked – not until today, at least. With his tall, graceful figure, he exuded an aura of authority, of elegance, of confidence that could not possibly be imitated. His long, bony fingers rhythmically stroked the head of the snake around his shoulders. Even such a simple movement looked ominous and foreboding.

But it was not his movements or even the fact that he towered over the Death Eaters that intimidated Harry this time. It was the icy, cold red eyes that pinned Harry to the spot from beneath his hood. It was such a cold and calculating gaze that Harry nearly shuddered under it. His eyes flashed with a silent warning – raw, intense hatred lingered behind the stare. He didn't blink nor did he avert his eyes. Harry knew that Voldemort had found out something about him that had frustrated him beyond measure.

"Leave us," he hissed coldly to the other Death Eaters.

Harry remained frozen as the Death Eaters brushed past him. They each flashed smirks as they passed him. Harry felt repulsed by their expressions. But it only affirmed what he had suspected.

Someone had ranted on him.

With his heart pulsing madly, he watched with dried lips as Voldemort silently assessed him. Harry could feel him prodding in his mind. He hurried to block it. But the effort, as always, was futile.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Voldemort straightened and shook his head. He stood with his wand aloft at his side like a deranged animal just waiting to pounce. Harry simply watched warily.

"Harry, Harry, Harry," he said softly, shaking his head. "Ten years it's been . . . and yet you continue to defy me. How _vain_ . . ." he spat. "I thought I taught you better than that."

"What are you –?"

" _Silence_!" he hissed in Parseltongue, sending Harry crashing to the wall with the flick of his wand. "I should have known – I should have seen the _sight_. I should have known that you were meddling with powers far beyond your own abilities. I should have seen the shift transpiring from right under my nose."

Harry resisted the urge to say "what nose?" Glaring, he stood up and irritably wiped the blood from his mouth with his thumb. He knew that there was no getting out of this. He knew what would happen tonight. Voldemort would never permit him to leave without consequence – without punishment. Not after Harry, once again, had been caught betraying him.

But Harry was prepared for the worst.

Not wanting to exacerbate the situation, he stood silently. Agitated, the Dark Lord continued to pace and pace across the lengths of the room. To Harry, he looked like a coy snake ready to leap onto its prey at the slightest hint of movement. His blood eyes pinned Harry to the spot. But Harry boldly met his gaze. As they locked eyes, a silent understanding passed between them.

He did not fear death. And Voldemort understood.

"Do you know what the consequences are, Harry," he said icily. "for those who betray Lord Voldemort? Of course, you know – better than anyone alive. You see, I was foolish, Harry. I tried to quench it, I tried to _stifle_ it. But as hot-headed as you are, you surpassed even my own abilities. It is not death or punishment that you fear, Harry, but something more than that – something that I, with all my glory, failed to recognize the moment I brought you here."

Harry felt his heart racing. Was he really that easy to read? How the Hell did Voldemort know so much about him? How can he tell exactly what Harry's strengths and weaknesses were?

As if reading his thoughts, which Harry suspected that he was, Voldemort smirked.

"Would you like to know why I called you here tonight?" he said, halting his pacing. "Why I have set aside my own precious time to grace you with my presence?"

But Harry did not respond. Something was holding him back. It was as if his lips had been glued shut.

"Ah, but you know, Harry," he said coldly. "You have always known."

"What do I know?"

"I underestimated you, Harry," he shook his head. "It is a mistake that I shall never intend to repeat."

With the swiftness of a predator, Voldemort flicked his wand again and sent Harry crashing to the walls. Feeling his breath knocked out of him, Harry slammed against the wall and felt invisible coils wrap against the wrists, which held him in place. His scar suddenly felt on fire. Groaning, he closed his eyes in an attempt to quench the pain, but it only got worse. Suddenly, he felt bony fingers wrap around his throat. Through blurred vision, he squinted up at the hooded figure in front of him.

Voldemort hissed.

"You see, I have a gift, Harry," he said mockingly. "A gift reserved just for my Horcruxes," he tightened his hand around Harry's throat. "Perhaps you might consider yourself . . . _blessed_."

Harry struggled against his grip. They were in such close proximity, he could feel Voldemort's breath against his skin. But the pain in his scar was weakening him. He could hardly fight, let alone see anything. He could hardly even breath with Voldemort's hand wrapped around his throat. But Voldemort's eyes emanated boiling hatred and quiet fury.

How he managed to keep himself composed was beyond Harry's knowledge.

"Do you think that you are protected, Harry," he whispered icily. "by the fact that you are a Horcrux? Perhaps that reason alone is why you continue to defy me."

Harry managed to conjure the strength to glare at him.

"You won't kill me."

"Ah, but how _tempting_ it is," he spat. "to fashion myself a new Horcrux out of the ashes of another. Is it death that you desire, Harry? Perhaps then, tonight, I shall oblige."

Harry met him with a defiant gaze in his eyes.

" _Do your worst_ ," he spat in Parseltongue.

Voldemort smirked.

" _I intend to_ ," he hissed back.

Instead of letting him go, however, Voldemort tightened his grip on his neck and leaned in next to Harry's ear. Harry did not see what happened next. All he knew was the agonizing pain in his forehead. He felt like his head had been split open. He could vaguely hear the soft whispers in his ear, but he couldn't process what it was about over the searing pain in his head. But as fast as it occurred, suddenly the pain vanished, and Voldemort loosened his grip. Harry tumbled to the ground, panting and massaging the bruise around his neck.

"W-what d-did you do?" he panted, trembling violently. He shakily rose to his feet. He struggled to repress the nauseous feeling clawing at his insides.

"What needed to be done," proclaimed Voldemort. He then calmly turned to walk back to his throne. As soon as he settled down, with the snake around his shoulders, he smirked and hissed in Parseltongue. " _Good luck, Harry_."

Still breathing heavily, Harry had no choice but to take the cue to leave. Casting a suspicious glance at Voldemort, he exited the room. As he shut the door, however, he leaned against the back of it. He tried hard to regain his composure, but the effort was fruitless.

Surely Voldemort would not let him go without consequences. He always punished him for anything that he disapproved of. Harry had been on the receiving end of his Cruciatus Curses almost every week. He even took pleasure from inflicting Harry with pain.

What exactly was Voldemort planning?

There must be something. To let him go without consequences was not something Voldemort would do. What had he done in those split seconds that Harry had been unable to process anything?

Still slightly worried, he leaned off the door and began walking back to the dungeons. He wondered how he was getting to the Ministry with all these problems arising. Voldemort already knew of his betrayal. And if he was planning something ominous . . . If he, in fact, succeeded in teaching Harry a lesson, could Harry afford to betray him once more?

Frustrated, he thrust his hands in his pockets but stilled. A sharp-edged object was placed within his robes – something that he was never allowed to posses unless he was sent on a mission or even sent to duel along with the Death Eaters.

It was his wand.

Voldemort had given him his wand.

Something was terribly wrong.

Glancing around the corridor, he looked up and made a rash decision. Instead of treading left where the underground dungeons were, he raced past the head of the snakes plastered against the wall, down the corridor, and out of the mansion, ignoring the cries of the guards standing in the front.

Voldemort be damned.

* * *

A/N: I honestly don't know if I should continue this story. My perfectionist side is killing me. Might go off to another project. But I already have the ending written (I was bawling). But I'm really losing motivation.

P.S. I hate myself from doing that to Arthur. But it's only going to get worse.


	12. Chapter 12: Trespassing

Stumbling to his feet, Harry arrived at the alleyway of a busy street and looked around. It was fairly isolated, with only the soft winds filling his ears. Carefully, he approached the end of the alleyway and leaned against the corner of it to observe his surroundings. He waited for any Ministry worker that seemed oddly dressed. Wizards always had a habit of queer Muggle outfits. They could never pull it off unless they were Muggle-born.

Of course, they weren't the only ones. Harry, himself, looked rather suspicious as well. But years of disguises had prepared him for the challenge. His messy hair was light brown tonight. His glasses were dark and dim to where his eyes wouldn't show. He was dressed in a light green jumper and dark brown trousers that seemed fitting for the chill winter air.

But he knew that he needed to change into Wizard clothes. It wasn't actually an original look. In fact, he had gotten the idea from one of the Daily Prophet articles that featured a young man at about his age that had been recruited for the Auror Office. But the young man had apparently been so brilliant that the Head Auror had given him permission to skip Auror training. Harry had taken the appearance with the hope that would gain entry into the Auror office where, he knew that, Ron Weasley worked.

Suddenly, Harry jolted.

There, at the end of the alleyway, was an individual with polka-dot light lilac coat and a bowled hat on top. He seemed very strange, glancing around warily. Harry immediately took cover. He ducked behind a parked car and waited until the figure crossed his path before he took action.

" _Stupefy_ ," he whispered.

He caught the man before he fell. Glancing around, he dragged the man into an isolated corner before he started to look through his belongings.

He knew it was wrong to steal. But what choice did he have?

As he expected, he rummaged through the man's rucksack and found out that was a wizard. He sighed in relief when he realized that the man was also an Auror. He pulled out the chestnut-colored robe and cloak from his rucksack and pulled them on. Then, he gently adjusted the man's position to look like he had just been sleeping against the wall before he turned to walk away. With a deep inhale, he tentatively exited the alleyway. Glancing around, he noticed that there was a large body of people walking down to a sort of underground entrance. He followed the crowd with wary feet. He made sure that no one was following him before he entered.

It was the most bizarre thing that he had ever seen in his life. There was almost a hundred people lined up in the bathroom. How anyone could get any privacy was beyond his knowledge. Harry followed them, feeling rather stupid. But soon, he realized that there was a certain rhythm to it. It was almost robotic.

Step in. Shut door. Flush.

It didn't seem like anyone was actually using the bathroom. In fact, as Harry looked around, he realized that there were some men dressed in long robes. Feeling bewildered, he tapped the shoulder of the bloke in front of him.

"Oi," he said, trying to stifle his confusion. "How does this work, exactly? Does this lead to the Ministry?"

But the man looked back and smiled.

"Oh, are you new around here?" he asked good-naturedly. Harry slowly nodded. "Don't worry there, son. Just step on the toilet and flush, and you'll find yourself in the Ministry in no time."

"Thanks."

As Harry reached to the place, he did as he was told. Sure enough, he arrived at the fireplaces but stumbled helplessly on the landing.

"Never got better at this," he muttered, brushing soot off of his robes. But as he heard the rush of flame, he stepped aside and allowed the man behind him through before he looked around. He needed to find Ron Weasley. That he meant that he needed to find the Auror Office. He looked around and found a large map beside the fountain that told him that it was at Level Two. Breathing deeply, he tried to stifle his heart racing as he treaded down the Atrium to find a lift.

The gravity of the situation finally hit him, as he moved past the throng of Ministry workers. He realized how utterly dangerous this was. To walk in plain sight in the center of the Ministry, even though he was disguised. He didn't belong here. He didn't belong with these ordinary people. He was a criminal. He was a threat to them. And by choosing to help Arthur Weasley and the Order, he was basically risking the lives of innocents by being here. He could very well hurt them. He could very well kill them. Voldemort could posses him at any time, any place until he did.

Or even worse . . . If he was caught . . . If they, in fact, discovered that he was Harry Potter . . .

The Dementor's Kiss.

Clearing his thoughts, he entered the lift. The door had almost slammed shut when someone's staff suddenly blocked it. Harry looked up. To his horror, he realized the two men that offered him dirty glances before they entered together.

It was the Malfoys. Lucius and his son, Draco.

"Can't hold a lift for a gentleman?" sneered Draco. He gave Harry a disgusted look before he turned his back.

But Harry regained his composure. He repressed the urge to turn both him and his father into bubotuber pus for what they had done to him in the past.

"Draco Malfoy," he said coolly. "Never thought I'd ever hear your dulcet tone here in the Ministry." He didn't care if he was giving himself away. He was too furious that they were allowed to work in the Ministry despite being known worldwide as Death Eaters. Hell, they were even part of the Inner Circle for Merlin's sake!

But the two whipped around, their faces curled into snarls. With their expressions, Harry assumed that they thought he was Muggle-born.

"Not surprising that you know who I am," sneered Draco. "You must know of my reputation against Mudblood-lovers like yourself. Isn't that right, Marcius?"

Harry blinked.

Marcius? Oh, right. That was the Auror's name.

"You mean the reputation of being the most spoiled prat in the Ministry?" said Harry savagely. "I'd say you earned it."

Draco looked furious. But his father held him back as the lift opened up.

"Come, Draco," said Lucius, shooting a disgusted look at Harry. "It is not wise to waste your breath on filth like this."

Harry glared.

"Oh, don't worry," he said angrily. "Where he's going, he won't have any breath to waste."

He pointedly ignored the appalled looks of the Malfoys before the doors slammed shut. He was trembling with fury. How many Death Eaters were here in the Ministry? Why the Hell was the Ministry foolish enough to keep them here? Shouldn't they be in Askaban? If they wanted to arrest Harry for his crimes, why the Hell weren't the other Death Eaters getting punished? They were as bad as he was.

Why arrest him, and not the others?

Shaking his head out of his thoughts, he exited the lift. Though his anger overruled his fear of being caught. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was probably the most dangerous out of them all. He reminded to be extra careful around here. Suddenly, footsteps echoed across the circular room. Harry quickly ducked behind a Gargoyle as the footsteps grew louder. He realized that it wasn't just one person but several others. His heart raced when he realized . . .

They sounded familiar.

" . . . need to watch yourself, Dad," said a concerned voice. "At this rate, you might need to see a Healer about that bladder of yours–"

"Oh, that won't be necessary," added another voice hastily.

Harry's heart nearly stopped when he heard the voice.

Could it be . . .?

Carefully, he cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself and peeked up from behind the Gargoyle. What he found was absolutely mind-boggling.

No bloody _way_.

At the entrance of the hallway, Ron Weasley and his father stood, apparently having a rather animated discussion. They looked casual and normal, but it disgusted Harry beyond measure. He thought that the Weasleys were mourning the loss of their father figure. He thought that they were actually concerned about him. He thought that they knew how terrible of a danger that he was in.

But they didn't.

They didn't know that the man that they had been living with for almost two weeks was a bloody imposter. They didn't know that the real Arthur Weasley was nearly on his death bed. They didn't know that he was bloody paralyzed from the waist down. Harry felt the familiar hot, boiling anger pulsing at his insides. No wonder Arthur had losing his hair at a rapid rate lately.

With the greatest effort, he stifled his temper enough to not try anything rash, though the urge was beyond tempting. But he couldn't get caught. He needed to stay alive. He needed to save the Order. There were almost a hundred lives at stake.

Shaking his head, he focused on the conversation.

"Really," added the Arthur imposter hastily, avoiding his son's narrowed eyes. "Don't worry about me. If it gets worse, I'll see a Healer about it."

"Sounds fair," muttered Ron. But he didn't look convinced.

"Well, I'll be in my office if you need me," he said, waving a hand dismissively. He scurried off without a backwards glance. "Take care, son."

As Arthur left, Ron sighed. He still looked concerned. But he turned back to tread down the hallway. Harry followed close behind him. But Ron kept glancing back to look behind him. Almost as if he sensed that something was off.

But Harry couldn't reveal himself just yet. It was hardly private enough. To his dismay, however, Ron was not choosing a private place at all. Instead, he turned left and chose to enter into a large area with hundreds of cubicles lined up in the center of the room. Harry felt his heart racing at the sight.

There were so many Aurors . . .

But as soon as Ron stepped in, he was swarmed by almost a dozen people demanding his attention. Harry didn't know how long it would take to answer all of their questions. He felt his Magic draining just keeping the Disillusionment Charm for that long. He looked around for a hiding spot when he suddenly stopped. One of the offices near the walls had the sign "Head Auror" plastered on it.

Casting one hasty glance at Ron, who was a bit too occupied at the moment, he made sure that no one was paying attention before he turned the knob. He noticed that it was locked, but a simple " _Alohomora_ " did the trick. To his relief, he discovered that the Office was empty.

Stepping inside, he disabled the Disillusionment Charm and glanced around. It seemed rather neat and simple, but there was a large cluster of parchments scattered across the desk. Knowing that he didn't have much time, he slowly approached the desk before abruptly halting in his tracks. To his surprise, he realized that he was looking at his own self – or rather, a picture of his older self plastered across a Daily Prophet article titled "Undesirable Number One."

But how the Hell had they gotten that picture? He had never shown his face ever in any of his missions, or during his duel with the Aurors. Those that caught a glimpse of him didn't have time to take a picture this accurate of him. Sure, they had images of his younger self. But they had never caught him when he was older. Even back in the Ministry, Dumbledore had blocked him from the crowd. They couldn't possibly have taken an isolated picture of him, not without Dumbledore near him.

Frustrated, he sifted through the various parchments. He grew desperate. Something wasn't right. Something didn't make sense. First, with the Malfoys. Then, the Arthur Weasley imposter. Then, this picture.

And he found the answer.

He stopped when he found two files with the names of Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom. It was their criminal records. He glanced down and noticed that they detailed smaller things, such as breaking school rules, barging into houses without a warrant, or even wounding a seemingly innocent suspect. But as he reached the end, he noticed that they had a large red "X" over their respective files. He also found other files, such as Nymphadora Tonks, Harper Narsfish, Bimini Bane, and several others that were also similar.

With his heart pulsing madly, the parchments dropped out of his fingers and onto the floor. But he didn't care. It was as if the world was crumbling right under his feet.

He couldn't believe it.

No. No. No.

He glanced around at the large shelf of files near the desk. They were arranged in alphabetical order. He traced his finger along the shelf until he arrived at the "P" section.

And he found it.

He bloody well found it.

With shaky hands, he pulled out the file of the young boy that couldn't possibly have been him and looked it with a sense of dread in his heart.

It wasn't the Death Eaters.

It was never the Death Eaters.

He looked at the file blankly. It was titled "Harry Potter" on the top. It seemed that Arthur Weasley's capture had been both a blessing and a curse to him. He almost feared the results. Would it change anything if he knew the truth?

But he needed to know.

With the greatest courage that he had ever conjured, he opened the file and looked inside. He found images of his dead aunt and uncle as well as several images of the home in question, including the crime scene. But suddenly, his breath hitched in his throat. At the end of the files, a small slip of parchment was tucked carefully beneath the flap. It was almost as if the person had deliberately tried to conceal it. To his horror, he discovered that it was his death certificate. His hand trembled violently as he read it.

Harry James Potter

Born: July 31, 1980

Death: June 14, 1996

Place of Death: Little Whinging, Surrey. Number Four, Privet Drive

Time of Death: Unknown

What the hell was going on? He wasn't dead! They had articles of him in the Daily Prophet, didn't they? But . . . no. He had only just appeared in public, after his fiasco in the Ministry. Had they thought him dead before?

But then, he studied the images again. As he examined them all side by side, he realized that there was some discrepancy. First, it was the fact that he had never died in Privet Drive. Not to mention, there was never a body there. So, why did they put that in there? Secondly, the dates on the images of his dead aunt and uncle were different than what was reported in his death certificate.

The images of his aunt and uncle read August 18, 1996. But his death was reported as June 14, 1996.

Something wasn't adding up.

That meant that he had been captured _before_ his aunt and uncle had been dead. Harry looked at the images more closely. He had experiences with dead bodies, and he knew right away that those bodies looked fresh. Almost like they had just died. They weren't as pale or even as wrinkly as older bodies did. Their fingernails weren't as blue as old bodies did, which meant that his aunt and uncle had been killed months _after_ his capture.

So, why kill them?

Did someone set the scene up? To make it look like Death Eaters had been responsible for the crimes? Who the hell was he supposed to trust now?

This file was a plain out lie from the beginning to the end of it.

Were the Aurors responsible for his capture, then? If they were lying about him, were they the ones that turned him in? But why? Weren't they supposed to be fighting Dark Wizards? Was Harry really that much of a threat in his teenage years? And wasn't Privet Drive guarded by the Fidelius Charm? How did they know the address? Or, in fact, the exact details of the home . . .

And here, he thought Voldemort was bad.

Utterly trembling with fury, he furiously stuffed the file into the Mokeskin pouch around his neck. With a furious cry, he kicked a side table with glassware ornaments on the top and let it smash to the floor.

He didn't even care if anyone caught him.

But the muttering outside reminded him of what – or who? – he was supposed to be after. He was supposed to be helping the Order. But he didn't even know who needed saving or who didn't anymore. Did Weasley know? If he knew . . . If he had known . . . God. But he couldn't have. Judging by the "X"s around his files, he must be the next target, right? Not to mention, he was also threatened by the fact that he was an Order member.

Harry couldn't blame him.

But as the muttering grew louder, Harry suddenly realized that there were people approaching. Hastily, he ducked behind the desk, ready to cast the Disillusionment Charm before the door slammed open.

"That Weasley can't tell the difference between a cat and a hare – " said one exasperated voice.

"Well, at least we're rid of him . . ." replied the other.

Knowing what they were talking about, Harry grew furious. Carefully, he wound his way to the side of the desk and pointed a wand at the door.

"Let's hope so," said, what sounded like, the older male. "Remember what happened last time? Skived off without a single wou –"

But the door slammed shut behind them.

They startled.

"What was that?"

They drew their wands, but Harry had yet to reveal himself. As they approached the desk from the sides, Harry ducked towards the front. His wand positioned at the older male. As the other man got too close, Harry bolted to his feet and shouted:

" _Stupefy_!"

As the man fell, however, Harry caught him and used him to shield himself against the other man. The two Stunning Curses hit him both square in the chest. But Harry threw him at the other man, causing them both to collapse into a tangle of limbs. He then approached him and stunned him for good measure. As his adrenaline effaced, his heart sank as he looked around at the now messy study. He reckoned that he should start being a little more subtle in the future.

Disregarding the thought, he approached them, knelt down, and flicked aside their robe sleeve.

Merlin's beard . . .

"The Dark Mark," breathed Harry, a sense of dread in his heart. "They're Death Eaters . . ."

Someone in the Ministry was a bloody traitor.

But who was it? Was it someone under the Imperius Curse? Was it that Arthur Weasley imposter? But no. It can't be. He had only just become a spy. But who was it, then? Was it the whole lot of the Ministry? Was it only a pretense – a façade that the Ministry put up to justify their actions? But, at least, he got one conclusion out of today.

The Ministry was siding with Voldemort all the way.

He didn't know how long he stood there. But suddenly, he snapped his head up, slammed the door open, and bolted down the corridors. He didn't care if he was caught. He didn't care even about Ron Weasley at the moment. Quite frankly, he didn't give a damn about anything at the moment.

That is, except one thing.

Once again, he took the lift and snapped harshly at the workers to get to his destination. They muttered in soft whispers and offered strange glances. But as soon as the lifts opened, he bolted down the corridor and into the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artefacts. As soon as he arrived, he slowed down and ducked his head. He struggled to suppress his anger. He looked around the names of the offices, ignoring the bewildered stares that he was getting. But finally, he found it at the nearest end of the corner.

To his relief, he found that it was unlocked and slightly ajar as well. He entered and hid in the large vase near the bookcases. He waited patiently for the subject in question to enter. At the sound of the door creaking open, however, he snapped his head up, his chest boiling with rage. He found the Arthur Weasley imposter entering and waving at someone behind him.

"Oh, don't you give a hoot about me," said Arthur. Though Harry could detect a hint of annoyance in his voice. "I'll be fine. Good luck, son."

Resisting the urge to throttle the man, Harry watched as the man cast a wary glance outside. He then locked the door, leaned back against it, and exhaled. With an eerie snort, he maneuvered around his desk. He then ducked his head to rummage through the drawers. His movements were frantic and desperate. Almost as if he was looking for something.

Seizing the chance, Harry warily approached him from behind. With a wave of his wand, he disabled the Disillusionment Charm. In one move, he whipped the man around, caught him by the scruff of the neck, and slammed him hard against the wall.

The man looked alarmed.

"Who are you?" demanded Harry, ignoring the man's wince. "You're not Arthur Weasley." But a wave of emotions crossed Arthur. Or, that is, the Arthur in disguise. Harry caught his look of unease before it vanished. But he didn't need to proof to know that this man was an imposter.

"That is a serious accusation," said Arthur, clearly unsettled. He struggled against the grip of the younger man.

"I'd like to see you deny it," snapped Harry.

"Who do you think you are?" barked Arthur. Harry caught him throwing a hasty glance at his wand. "Unhand me at once!"

Harry threw the man with all his might against the bookcases. Parchments and books fell onto the man. Arthur groaned and rubbed the back of his head. But Harry didn't care. Instead, he summoned the man's wand and cast a Silencing Charm on the room.

"Arthur Weasley is locked up in a cell in Riddle Manor," snapped Harry, removing his disguise. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

The man's eyes widened. He looked up at Harry with a startled look.

"Potter!"

"So, you're the spy, aren't you?" said Harry angrily. "You bloody well ranted on me, didn't you?"

The man sneered. His features shifted. It seems that the effects of the Polyjuice Potion was wearing off. His red hair fused into coal black. His blue eyes became a light grey color. Harry recognised the man as Antonin Dolohov.

"You can thank the Order for that information," smirked Dolohov, rising to his feet. But Harry quickly strode across and wrapped his hands around the man's throat.

"I'll thank them if you tell me where they are," said Harry quietly, holding the man against the wall. But the man looked both irritated and amused.

"Oh, I can't tell you _that_ ," smirked Dolohov, his eyes gleaming. "But I can tell you _where_ they're going. Down in the dirt, that's where."

"Tell me where they are," warned Harry. "or you're going down first."

"Hah!" scoffed Dolohov, his eyes glistening from Harry's tight clutch. "You've got nothing on me, Potter! You haven't even a wand to threaten me with."

"You mean this thing?" taunted Harry, removing his wand from its holster. "I'd thank your Master for lending me one."

Dolohov paled.

"What the bloody – ?"

"Go on," threatened Harry, his wand leveled at the man's chest. "Tell me where they are."

"Does it matter where they are?" sneered Dolohov. "Death will come to them individually. Let's just say that the next Order meeting will never take place. After midnight," he breathed, a gleeful look in his eyes. "They all will lie in the pool of their own blood."

But Harry's mind was racing. He released the man and conjured ropes to wrap around his hands to keep him against the wall. He then paced and paced across the lengths of the room in thought. If there was no Order meeting, then they didn't have to be together. That meant that Voldemort wasn't targeting the Order Headquarters. And if he wasn't after the building, then . . .

"They must wearing something similar," said Harry absently. He whipped around and glared accusingly at the man on the floor. "You . . . You're tracking them, aren't you?"

"It seems that the Master's Right Hand's got brains as well," said Dolohov grudgingly, wrestling with the ropes around his wrist.

"Must be strange talking to someone who's got one," scorned Harry. "What were they using?"

"I'm afraid I lack the brains to answer that, Potter," answered Dolohov idly. "Must be the consequence of being Arthur Weasley for too long."

Harry glared. His chest was boiling, his eyes blinded with fury. The fact that they had left a man paralyzed without his family's knowledge disgusted him beyond measure.

"He's a better man than you," he said coldly.

Unable to control himself, he conjured whatever hatred that he had stifled against the Death Eaters for the entire week, whatever frustrations that he had gotten from his trip in the Ministry, and cast the Cruciatus Curse. He felt the rush of satisfaction watching the man writhe and scream on the floor. Even though he wasn't possessed, he didn't feel an ounce of regret. In a way, it was mercy compared to what the Death Eaters had done against the prisoners.

But as soon as he lifted the Curse, the man broke into hysterical laughter.

"Opting for Dark Magic," he wheezed, lifting himself up. Though the effort was difficult since his hands were still tied up. "You've really changed, haven't you, Potter?"

Harry shot him a dark look. "With almost a hundred people on their death beds –"

"And Dumbledore –" cut in Dolohov, smirking.

"– you think I'll take it lying down?"

"They were dead, anyway," spat Dolohov. "Their faith in the greater good would've killed them."

"And your faith in your Master will you," said Harry firmly, his wand pointed at the man. "And I'd thank _him_ for giving me the strength to do this."

"I'll tell him you're supporting the Order," said Dolohov nervously, in a fruitless attempt to look intimidating.

"Even you're not that thick," scoffed Harry. "You think I'll let you go? You've seen what I've done before, haven't you?" He flicked aside his robe sleeve from his arm to reveal the Dark Mark. "Go on, tell me where it is."

Dolohov looked panicked.

"You wouldn't dare –"

"Wouldn't I?" challenged Harry, his wand hovered over the Dark Mark on his arm. "Tell me where it is. You wouldn't want to let your glory go, would you? Tell me where it is, or I'll claim it all for myself. I'll tell him it was me. He won't know the difference."

"You?" sputtered Dolohov, eliciting an uneasy laughter. "Hah! The Chosen One. Crippling the Order. He'll never believe you."

"We'll find out, won't we?" challenged Harry. He brought his wand towards the Dark Mark, seriously intending to call Voldemort here and inform him of the man's betrayal.

"Stop!" shouted Dolohov.

"Where is it?" commanded Harry, his wand dangerously to the Dark Mark. But the man looked alarmed and started wrestling wildly with the ropes.

"Potter –"

"Where the hell is it?" Harry bellowed.

"It's the coin!" cried the man, holding up his hands in defeat. "It's the bloody coin!"

"What coin?" said Harry impatiently.

"On the desk," shouted Dolohov, pointing towards the desk. "That bloody coin that the Order use to communicate."

Harry offered him a suspicious look. He charmed the man with a sticking charm on the wall before he walked up to the desk.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

Harry lifted up the coin and studied it from under his glasses. It was a small, yellow coin that looked about the size of a Snitch. But Harry noticed that there were tiny inscriptions on the top. With his poor eyesight, Harry squinted and leaned in to read the word.

DEHTA

"There is a charm placed on it," explained Dolohov, sounding oddly gleeful. "At midnight, the letters will rearrange themselves to spell a word. If that requirement is met, violent spasms will be produced to any person holding the coin until . . ."

"Death," Harry breathed, his face paler than usual.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost evening. As he did, however, the letter "A" shifted beside the "E." Harry knew that the word would be fully spelled at midnight. But he still didn't know where the Order was. In fact, he didn't think that he could ever know. They were probably protected by the Fidelius Charm. He only had a few hours now. He needed to act fast before it was too late.

But suddenly, a thought crossed Harry.

"How did you bypass the Fidelius Charm?" he asked, his voice sounding distant.

Surely Dumbledore would suspect it if one of his members somehow became barred from entry? When he didn't receive an answer, he turned to glare accusingly at the man. To his irritation, the man looked smug. Harry almost felt disgusted by the look that he was giving him.

"Same way we did the first time," smirked Dolohov, his eyes gleaming.

But Harry didn't need an explanation.

His chest boiling, Harry marched over to the man, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and narrowed his eyes. No way was he letting the man go. He would even the risk the possibility of selling himself out to Voldemort if only to bring a bit of justice for Arthur Weasley.

"I know what to do with you," he said quietly.

Dolohov simply shot him a wary look.

Ten minutes later, Harry checked both ways along the hallway before he turned the corner. He noticed that there was a group of four wizards wearing dark robes, just like him. Deciding that that was his best option, he lingered close behind them. But they didn't notice. They seemed to be so engrossed in their conversation that they didn't see the hooded man behind them. But finally, he entered the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

Carefully, he extracted himself from the group. To his relief, there didn't seem to be anyone that noticed him. But he noticed that there was a receptionist where inquiries can be submitted. The receptionist, in question, seemed to be having a heated discussion with a man who was wrestling with a fluttering Doxy. He reminded Harry unpleasantly of his Uncle Vernon. The creature screeched rather unpleasantly and beat the man repeatedly over the head with a wooden ladle. This act, however, continued to frustrate the man.

"Madam!" the man cried indignantly, batting away the Doxy. "My house is positively infested – ow! – with these vile–ow!–nasty–ow!– _creatures_. I beg you. Ow! See to it–ow!–that they are exterminated!"

But the woman looked outraged.

"We can't possibly hope to exterminate them, good _sir_ ," she said, her patience effacing. "The venom that they produce is an essential ingredient to the Wiggenweld Potion, which can wake comatose patients and even the ones placed in the deepest bewitched sleep. What you are asking, good _sir_ , is pure madness!"

"Madness, is it?" roared the man, his eyes bulging. "I assure you, Madam, that I have three children that–"

"–will benefit from the Doxy venom should they ever, Heaven forbid, fall into an enchanted sleep," said the woman flatly. "Next!"

"Madam!"

"Next!" she shrilled.

With one last huff, the man threw a final glare at the woman before he left, the Doxy still beating him over the head. But Harry was rather grateful that the man had gotten her so flustered. She was so furious that she almost didn't pay him much mind. Instead, Harry tugged open his cloak and uncurled the ferret from the cloth. Furtively, he disabled the Silencing Charm on it. Then, he approached her with the animal wrestling against his grip.

But Harry didn't spare it a glance.

"Excuse me," said Harry, lowering his hood. The woman shot him an irritated but studious look. "I've got a bad case with a ferret."

Her features softened, and she showed a modicum of concern.

"State your case," she said stiffly. Suddenly, a Quill and a parchment rose in the air, the former hovering ready to start scribbling.

"Well," said Harry, trying to sound casual. He reached into his cloak to pull out a cotton material, though the effort was difficult with the ferret squirming madly in his hands. "It's a bit wild, you see. Been giving that Weasley – is it? – a hard time every chance it gets."

Finally, he unwrapped the cotton material to reveal a rather bloodied shirt. The woman flinched back, her hands snapping to her face before she reached up to take it.

"Oh, _goodness_!" she exclaimed, her frustrations forgotten. She examined the material carefully, and Harry tightened his grip around the ferret. "Oh, dear, dear. Oh, well. I think that's enough to warrant a bad case. Yes, yes. I think so."

"Yeah. I mean, look what it's done to me."

To further exacerbate the situation, he tugged back the sleeve of his robe from his left arm to show her his scars. The woman looked faint.

"Oh, dear, _dear_ ," she said faintly, shaking her head. "Definitely a bad case." The Quill that had been scribbling furiously suddenly stopped. She leaned to scribble something herself before she turned back to Harry with a stern look. Harry felt the ferret float of his hands. Trying not to feel too smug, he watched as she trapped it in an enchanted cage and placed a large "X" around it. But the ferret now was beyond desperate.

But Harry didn't care.

Sure, he had lied about his scars. He had, in fact, gotten those scars from Voldemort, not from the ferret. But at least one of the Death Eaters had gotten what he deserved.

Born a ferret. Always a ferret.

But the woman spoke. "Well, then," she said, scowling. She was shuffling through her parchments, her nose wrinkling in thought. "Rest assured, Mr. . .?"

"Marcius."

"Marcius," she nodded politely. "That this feral animal will no longer have a place among us civilized people."

Harry looked suspicious. "You'll take it down?"

"Yes," she replied. Though her eyes narrowed, suspicion written all over her features. "Is there an issue, Mr. Marcius?"

"Not at all," added Harry hastily. He shot the ferret one last look before he turned to the woman. "Thanks."

She smiled. "Do avoid ferrets in the future, won't you, Mr. Marcius?"

"Sounds simple," he muttered, irresistibly thinking of Voldemort and the Death Eaters. But the woman simply raised a brow, a hint of suspicion on her face.

"Sorry?"

"Oh, nothing," he added hastily. He then promptly turned on his heels, weaved through the crowd, and shouted back. "Thanks."

And he was off.

He knew what he had to do.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Then I told him off," said Ron, his feet perched up on the desk. "Showed him how bloody thick he was. You'd think a bloke that age would've deflated his head a bit."

"Oh, yes," said Hermione, her Quill hovering over her parchment. She shot Ron a withering look. "And the best way to deal with someone like that is by showing how macho of a man you are."

They were sitting in Ron's Auror's office. Hermione was sitting at the desk, finishing her paperwork. Ron, however, sat on the armchair at the side of the desk, his feet perched onto the desk, his hands tucked behind his head. He looked almost smug. So engrossed in their discussion, they hardly noticed the figure that snuck into the room with an uneasy feeling about him.

"Exactly," nodded Ron. "Finally someone gets it."

Hermione sighed. "Oh, Ron," chided Hermione, shaking her head and reaching for a mug on the side of the desk. "You're so oblivious."

He grinned. "Well, that's why I married you, isn't it?"

"Oh, so I'm just your flaw examiner," huffed Hermione, raising an eyebrow from above her mug of coffee. "that's all I am to you?"

Ron raised a brow. "Did I say that?"

"You most certainly were implying it!"

"Er – Ron?" asked Neville nervously, lingering at the doorway. He looked almost ready to flee the room at the slightest hint of commotion.

"Only a woman would take it that way," muttered Ron.

Hermione's eyes flashed. "Oh, well-spotted!" she said irritably. "Maybe if you didn't have the emotional range of a teaspoon, you would realise when you were being insensitive."

"Well, maybe if _you_ told me what ruffles your feathers," Ron shot back, shooting out of his armchair. "I wouldn't have offended you!"

Hermione was outraged. "I _wasn't_ offended!"

"Yeah, all right," said Ron offhandedly, throwing his hands in the air in dramatic exasperation. "Whatever floats your boat."

"It most certainly isn't you!" shrilled Hermione, crossing her arms over her chest. Her work was almost forgotten, sprawled across Ron's desk.

"Er–Ron."

"If only Harry was here."

"Harry would know his place!"

"Just _what_ are you implying, woman?"

"You heard me, Ron!"

"Ron!"

With collective jolts, they both whipped around to find a grim-faced Neville standing against the doorway. He looked, for all intents and purposes, like a stiff prey ready to leap at the slightest hint of danger. But they smiled warmly at him as if nothing had ever happened in the first place.

"Oh, hello, Neville," greeted Hermione, smiling warmly. It was almost as if she hadn't just been ready to make feathers out of her husband.

"Blimey, Neville," grinned Ron abashedly. "Didn't see you there, sorry."

Neville gave a weak smile. "It's all right," he shrugged. "I'm easily missed."

"No, you're not," said Hermione firmly, returning her attention to her parchments. "Don't talk about yourself like that."

"Yeah," said Ron, a cheeky grin on his face. "Not many people've got the spunk to barge into Ron Weasley's office without an invitation."

"They don't _need_ an invitation, Ron," said Hermione exasperatedly. "It's not as if you're the Minister of Magic."

"You're right," replied Ron, holding his chest out proudly. "I'm better than the Minister."

Neville laughed. "You sure have a better ego."

"Oi, watch it!" barked Ron, throwing a playful punch at the other man. Neville simply leaned away, smiling. "I'll report that."

"I'll hold you to that," muttered Neville, throwing a hasty glance at his watch. "Well, ready to depart?" He turned to Ron with a raised brow.

Ron shrugged.

"Ready as I'll ever be."

"Oh, do be careful, you two," said Hermione anxiously, greeting them at the door. "Don't try anything reckless!"

"What are we?" asked Ron, an eyebrow raised. "Children?"

But Hermione remained anxious, and Neville hurried to settle her worries. "What Ron's trying to say is," added Neville hastily, shooting a wary glance at Ron. "We'll be fine, Hermione."

To his relief, she smiled. Though there was still a hint of unease in her expression.

"Good luck."

They exited the office. As soon as Hermione shut the door, however, Ron shot Neville a half-exasperated and half-amused look.

"Barmy, that one," he muttered. He yelped when he received a not-to-affectionate elbow to the side by Neville.

"She's worried about you," said Neville, stepping past the hallway with Ron trailing him. "Show a bit of gratitude, will you?"

"Telling her to stop worrying isn't a sign of gratitude?"

"You could've said it differently."

Ron grimaced. Then, he straightened into a pose reminiscent to his wife – his hand over his heart, his eyes wide and full of pity, his lips pouting.

"Hermione, darling," he gushed, his voice high-pitched. Neville doubled-down with laughter. "My heart aches to see you in such a grievous state. Be a dear and tone down the anxiety, won't you, Hermywobbles?"

Neville grinned. "Hermywobbles," laughed Neville, wiping tears from his eyes. "I reckon she'll have a fit if she hears that."

"But she'll stop worrying, won't she? She'll be too distracted for that," said Ron proudly, his chest pumped. "See? Told you I can be sensitive."

"Fair enough," muttered Neville, defeated.

They turned the corner where they came across a large section of cubicles that the lower-ranked Aurors, or even the new recruits, used. Those that were admitted to higher ranks like Ron and Neville often had their own offices.

"Aren't we supposed to be leaving?" asked Ron, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He noticed that Neville was poking around the cubicles. As if he was looking for someone.

"We've got a new recruit," said Neville simply. A piece of parchment floated out from his robes and in front of his face. "Name's Barty Marcius. Robards says he's ready to join the field. Says he's got enough experience for it."

Ron groaned. New recruits were often a headache to deal with.

"Could've fooled me," muttered Ron. Though he pointedly ignored the glare from Neville. "Constant vigilance," he added tauntingly.

Neville scowled.

Despite his irritation, however, he resumed his search for the young Auror. But Ron noticed that he was slowly growing frustrated. He kept circling back to the same cubicle over five times. To their bewilderment, the cubicle looked rather messy, almost as if there had been some squabble around it. Various parchments were scattered across the floor, the drawers of the cabinets were open and lopsided, and some files and Daily Prophet articles were torn in some edges. But even then, Ron, too, grew irritated.

Unable to contain himself, he asked:

"Well?"

Neville huffed and glanced at his parchment for almost the fifth time. Then, he turned to the cubicle in particular with a frown on his face.

"He's not here," concluded Neville.

"Let's just ditch him, why don't we?"

"No!" cried Neville. "Robards said –"

"Who cares what Robards says?" exclaimed Ron, throwing his hands in the air. "We've got a whole village in trouble. We haven't got time to deal with a new recruit's lazy ars– "

"Looking for me?"

Ron and Neville startled. They whipped around only to find a tall, chestnut-robed man with a similarly colored cloak behind them. He was fairly young, almost Ron's age, with scruffy brown-hair. His glasses were slightly dark and dim to where they couldn't see his eyes. Ron wondered if the man was blind with those type of glasses. What startled Ron, however, was how deathly pale the man was. He genuinely wondered if his skin had ever seen the sunlight.

He couldn't resist asking.

"Are you the lazy arse recruit?"

From beside him, Neville shot him a glare. But the other man's lip simply curled in faint amusement. "Barty Marcius," he stated flatly, holding his hand out in greeting.

Ron grinned. He rather liked the man's cheek.

"Ron Weasley," he said, shaking the man's hand. Then, he jerked a thumb in Neville's direction. "And this is my partner, Neville."

"Pleasure meeting you, Barty," said Neville warmly, likewise shaking the man's hand. A hint of a smile appeared on the young man's face.

"The pleasure is mine," he replied politely.

But Ron froze. Why did that sound so familiar? Come to think of it, something about the man seemed strangely familiar. The politeness, the tone, the mannerism. He pinned the man with a suspicious stare before he decided to let it slide.

For now.

"Well, now that we've got the formalities out of the way," said Ron, cracking his knuckles. "Let's get the bloody Hell out of here."

The other two nodded.

"Right."

They followed Ron out of the Auror Department, down the corridors, past the throng of Ministry workers, and into the lifts. As they stood there, however, Barty felt the need to fill in the silence.

"So, where are we headed?" asked Barty rather casually.

"Robards didn't tell you?" asked Neville, frowning. But Barty shook his head. "I s'pose he expected us to fill you in – "

"Fraisdaill Village," interjected Ron, rocking on his heels. "That's the Death Eater's next target. We've already sent three teams there to hold them off in case things get all botched. They'll be waiting for us, I think."

Barty nodded.

"It's got a high Muggle-born population," continued Neville, stepping out of the lift. "And it isn't exactly your everyday village. It's –"

"Floating on thin air," interjected Ron, grinning widely.

As they reached the Atrium, he deliberately charmed one man's shoe laces to untie themselves, which caused the man to fall face flat on the floor. He snickered but stopped when Neville shot him a glare.

"What?" asked Ron indignantly. "He was being a git to Dumbledore."

"It was justified the first time."

"Second time's the charm."

"Come off it," said Neville, an eyebrow raised. "Will it change anything?"

But as Ron opened his mouth to retort, Barty interrupted.

"How d'you float a village on thin air?" asked Barty, bewildered. The other two looked startled by the interruption. They had almost forgotten that he was here.

"Levitating Charm," said Ron simply. He couldn't tell the man's mood since his eyes were concealed, but he could tell that he was still confused. "It isn't just one bloke's work. Loads of wizards kept the land floating. It's been there for decades."

"Well, that's about as far as we know," said Neville, craning his neck to look past the crowds. "It was actually a part of land at first, but a chunk of it broke off into the water when Grindewald and his followers split the land in half –"

"Why would they do that?"

"A part of it was filled with Dark Wizards," explained Neville, though Ron was looking bored. "But the other was just ordinary. Fraisdaill Village was actually the whole chunk of it. But when Grindewald came along, he wanted the whole lot of them on his side. But they wouldn't have it."

"So, he split the land?" asked Barty.

"He split the land," nodded Neville.

Barty shuffled on his feet. It was clear that he was still confused.

"I don't understand," he said slowly, absentmindedly scratching his head. "Why Levitate it, then?" But Neville shot him an exasperated look.

"Didn't you hear a _thing_ that Robards said?"

Barty fidgeted.

"Sorry."

"It wasn't exactly about Grindewald this time," explained Neville, looking around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. "When the part of the village split off to float in the sea, it was the Thunderbird that botched everything up. You know what a Thunderbird is, don't you?"

Barty shook his head.

Neville gave him a exasperated look. Ron nearly called him out for being a Hermione, but he wisely decided against it.

"It's almost like a Pheonix," said Neville. "But different. For one, it's bigger – "

"As big as a dragon–" added Ron.

"Yeah," nodded Neville. "The hint is in the name. It makes storms when it flies. That is, if it think it's in any danger."

"They . . ." said Barty, sounding uneasy. "They didn't try to . . . _attack_ it, did they?"

"They needed to eat," said Ron, looking sympathetic. He could hardly go a day without food. "Why limit yourself to only the fish in the sea? Seems a bit brainless, if you ask me."

"So, the Thunderbird caused the storm?"

"That's right," nodded Neville. "It almost drowned them. But one of the wizards there thought up a clever idea to get anyone who knew how to cast the Levitating Charm to float the land out of the water's reach. It took almost a hundred wizards to float it out of harm's way. But it's been there ever since. Neat, isn't it?"

"With or without Voldemort in the picture?" asked Ron dryly. Neville twisted his lip in disapproval and shook his head.

"You know what I mean, Ron."

"Are we Apparating there?" interjected Barty, but Ron gave him a strange look. He couldn't believe how many questions he asked.

Neville shook his head.

"No, it's guarded –"

"You a flier, Barty?" asked Ron, a grin on his face. "Not scared of heights, are you?"

Barty's eyebrows furrowed. He looked almost irritated.

"Never," he said simply. Finally, they arrived at the fireplaces. Neville entered first. "I mean, I haven't flown in a while. Might be a bit rusty, come to think of it."

"Don't slow me down," warned Ron, punching the younger man affectionately on the shoulder.

Barty's lip curled.

"We'll see."

Ron snorted. He gave a rather roguish grin before he entered into the fireplace.

As soon as he arrived, he found himself in a rather dim wooden home, with the heads of house elves and Thestrals plastered against the walls. It was a rather dingy place with aloft planks and dim, floating candlelights that illuminated the room. The place reeked with the smell of pigs, dirt, and wine. As he looked across the room, however, he found a large counter with several bar stools at the front. The beer from beside the barman was practically gushing out onto the floor. But it never reached the ground.

But he startled at the sound of fireplaces. He heard a faint curse and looked down only to find Barty stumbling to his feet. When he noticed Ron and Neville looking at him, he gave a wince.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I was never good with Floo-travel."

"Best get used to it, mate," said Ron, waving a hand absently. "Most Aurors use Floo-travel to get to their missions. Don't want you all sick on us, do we? Just Neville's burden enough." He smirked. But Neville shot him a half-hearted glare.

Barty muttered something that Ron didn't hear.

"What's that?"

"Oh, nothing," added Barty hastily.

Ron gave him a strange look. But Neville interjected.

"Best let Bane know we're here," said Neville, moving to the burly barman. "Robards said he's got our brooms ready."

"Brilliant," grinned Ron.

Then, they approached the barman and huddled around him. The people around the bar were giving them dark and suspicious glances, as they were made of Flobberworm of some sorts. Ron repressed the urge to glare back at them. Instead, he and Barty stepped back and let Neville do all the talking.

"Oi," whispered Neville, pointedly ignoring the stares from the other members of the bar. "Bane. You got our message, didn't you?"

But the man narrowed his beetle-black eyes. He glanced around for a moment before he leaned his large, bulky frame on the counter.

"In the back," he said, his voice drummed. He tilted his head pointedly towards the broom shed behind the counter. "Good luck."

Finally, they reached the broom shed. They each picked up a broom before Ron felt the need to interject. "I wouldn't be surprised if they charmed our broomsticks to throw us off," He muttered absently. But Neville shot him a frown.

"Why would you think that?"

Ron looked outraged.

"Did you see how they were staring at us?" he cried, almost defensively. "They looked fit to murder." But as if addressing a petty child, Neville sighed.

"Look, I know they're not the best type of people," he said firmly. "But you can't just assume that they're all bad."

"What d'you mean?" asked Barty. "Is this the part of the village that Grindewald was in?" But the other hurriedly shushed him down.

"Watch it, will you?" hissed Ron, leaning forward to whisper. "You can't mention him around here. He was captured, remember? You know, the whole fiasco with Dumbledore."

"Oh," said Barty, sounding guilty. "Sorry."

"Right," nodded Neville. "Let's get going."

Together, they took their brooms and stepped out of the bar. As soon as they stepped out, Ron got a glimpse of the village from a relatively elevated perspective. The village was on uneven ground, with sloping green hills that rose and fell depending on which part of the village one was in. Despite its bright green lands, however, the atmosphere was rather bleak and humid. It was rather misty that it was hard to distinguish who was walking several feet in front of the other houses. The residents were reticent and reserved. Their houses remained locked, and little interaction was done throughout the village.

But then, he squinted into the distance and found a large blob floating in the sky above the large body of the sea. Despite the mellow mood of the village, he rejoiced at the sight.

"There!" he shouted, drawing the attention of the other two. "See it? That large black blob in the center. That's where we're headed."

"Right," said Neville, though he sounded a bit wary. "Let's get going, then?"

Ron grinned.

"Scared, Neville?" he teased. He laughed when Neville's face turned a bright green color. "Look, if anything goes wrong, just look down, all right?"

"That's helpful," muttered Barty at Ron's side.

"That a challenge, Barty?" threatened Ron. "I'll have you know that my sister is the captain of the Holyhead Harpies."

Barty raised a brow. "What's that got to do with you?"

Ron snorted. Before anyone could think, however, he grabbed his broom, soared into the sky, and saluted down at the other two.

"Bloody cowards!" he shouted down.

But he was almost knocked off of his broom when something suddenly whipped past him into the sky, made a loop, before hovering beside Ron with a hint of a smile on his face.

It was Barty.

"Bloody Hell!" Ron exclaimed, an impressed look on his face. "You call that rusty?"

Barty shrugged.

"It's been a while since I've flown," he muttered, sounding faintly uncomfortable. But Ron ignored it. Instead, he looked down again.

"Come on, Neville!" he shouted. "You're holding us up!"

But Neville was still looking nauseous. He kept throwing wary glances at the village in the sky. He seemed troubled by the distance and the height.

"Why don't you climb with one of us?" Barty suggested, and Ron nodded in approval. He zipped down and offered Neville a hand, which Neville accepted.

"All right, then."

As soon as he settled, they were off. They soared high above the village, the wind zipping across the robes, their hair. The jagged edges of the hill side was even more apparent at that distance. Finally, they reached the water's edge and the smell of the sea overwhelmed their senses. The majesty of the waves crashed – wave after wave. Curling and furling before crashing and crashing. The setting sun caused ripples of yellow and red in the sky. At the height that they were flying, they almost reached the clouds. It was amazing how strong that Levitating Charm was.

But they hardly paid any attention to the scenery. In fact, Ron was a bit too distracted laughing and making stupid moves with Barty to notice anything. He knew that he was making Neville more sick by making sharp dives and complex loops. But he would never admit that Barty outshined him by a landslide.

But as Barty pulled out of a spiral loop, Ron moved and sidled beside him.

"Ever played Quidditch, Barty?" shouted Ron over the roaring winds.

But Barty shook his head.

"Never got the time for it!" Barty shouted back.

But Ron looked startled.

"You should give it go!" he said, his broom rising higher and higher, "If you weren't an Auror, I might have even suggested professional Quidditch!"

But Barty stayed silent.

But finally, they reached the village. They had to maneuver through large pillars shaped with arches to enter. At the top of the arch, however, was a figure etched onto the surface. It was a large bird that looked almost like a Pheonix with large wings outstretched. It seemed to be changing colors. But a large inscription gleamed across it.

Fraisdaill Village

Barty and Ron threw knowing glances at each other before they zipped past the archway. Finally, they arrived at the –

Village?

What the Hell was going on?

As they landed, with Neville doubled down vomiting, they looked up with utter bewilderment on their faces. The large, metal doors at the entrance were hung ajar. But the air was bleak and dreary. It was almost as if someone had turned off the sun as soon as they had arrived. The village was misty and foggy. An icy feeling crossed Ron, and the feeling was mutual judging by the way Barty was glued to the spot.

As they looked down the trail down the double doors, they realized with dread in their hearts that there was no one there. Not a soul breathed. Not a twig snapped. Not a bird fluttered.

There was no doubt in their minds that something was wrong.

Something was terribly wrong.

* * *

A/N: I take a lot of ideas out of DC (mainly Sandman and Batman). By the way, I honestly think that, if push comes into shove, Harry would very well use the Cruciatus Curse. He did in the OOTP, also DH. But I think he would only do it if it's justified, and not because it feels good. It's funny. He has the same personality type as Rorschach from Watchmen. They often let their anger get the better of them.

Special thanks to Magical Witch for such kind, kind reviews. You kept me writing, so thanks a lot.

Reviews help. Thanks!


	13. Chapter 13: Time is of the Essence

Warning: this entire chapter might be too disturbing for some readers. Either read at your own discretion, rent a guardian or parent or something, or grow a backbone.

Enjoy.

* * *

An uneasy feeling crossed the three. Something seemed very unnatural about the state of the village. The atmosphere was very thick, tense, and dreary, not at all the bustling village that they had expected. There was an unusual stillness about it. The air was foggy and misty – thick with humidity and greyness. There was a strange coldness about the village, almost like they had just been drenched in ice. They could even see their breaths flowing in front of them. And although it was reported to have nearly one thousand residents living there, along with various Magical creatures, and animals, there didn't seem to be a soul in sight. Not a plant. Not an animal. Not even a person.

"Does it seem a bit . . ." said Ron uneasily. " _quiet_ to you?" But even Ron's hushed voice seemed to thunder across the stillness of the village. He glanced around at the surroundings. Even the trees beside him seemed grey and deadened. Their leaves were ripped and shedding.

It felt almost like a graveyard.

"I don't understand," said Barty, looking around. "Didn't you say the Aurors were waiting on us?"

Ron blinked. "Well–yeah," he replied, looking down at the trail down the double metal doors. "But . . . you think the Death Eaters got to them?"

"Only one way to find out . . ." said Barty, squaring his shoulders before walking down the path. Ron moved to follow him. But it seemed Neville had regained his composure. He stepped them in front of the two, blocking their path.

"Oi," he stammered, sounding uneasy. "but – it's only three of us –"

"I know," replied Barty, moving past Neville without another glance. "but we can't just leave the villagers here. We've got to help."

Ron nodded. "Advice from a champ?" said Ron, clapping the shorter man on the shoulder before he passed. "Grow a backbone, Neville."

Neville slumped, defeated. "Thanks, Ron."

Finally, they continued on the path. The dead grass crunched under their feet. Twigs from dead trees cracked like broken bones. But as soon as they stepped past the double metal doors, the smell of rotting flesh overwhelmed their senses. Ron resisted the urge to throw up.

"Something seems a bit . . ." said Neville, glancing around warily. "odd about this village, don't you think?"

Ron raised a brow. "Floating hundreds of miles above water isn't odd to you?"

"Well–"

"Oi," interjected Barty, pointing ahead. "Look here."

They followed Barty's finger and squinted past the thick mist. To their surprise, at the edge of the double metal doors, there was a large stable filled with rows and rows of bony thin, horse-like creatures that kicked at the dust beneath their feet. There were almost a hundred of them. As Ron neared them, he noticed that they were strapped with thick leather ropes around their heads to keep them from scurrying off. Ron's eyes widened at the sight.

"Thestrals!" cried Neville.

"There's hundreds of them!" breathed Ron.

"You don't think they use them to get down, do they?" asked Barty.

Ron frowned. "You mean like fly out of the village?"

"Yeah."

"Dunno," shrugged Ron. "I thought they used broomsticks."

"But–aren't there Muggles here?" asked Barty, glancing around. "How can they use Thestrals, then? Come to think of it, how do they explain why the island's floating in the first place?"

"They made a pact–the Magical-Muggle pact," explained Neville. "Most villagers here know that magic exists, I think. But telling Muggles about magic–it's only allowed in certain areas, and the Ministry's got to have a say in it."

"Sounds like they took it well," muttered Barty, but Ron sensed a bit of sarcasm in his tone. But he decided to let it slide.

"Come on," said Ron, moving ahead down the trail. "We'll never know unless we find out."

The other two nodded.

"Right."

They continued down the trail, but the more they walked, the more dreary and silent the place became. Ron didn't know if the hundreds of Thestrals that they had seen had tainted the mood of the village for him or not. But there was an eerie stillness about it. Almost like Death was waiting at the end of the trail with his scythe drawn, ready to seize their souls.

"It's like a Dementor threw up in here," grimaced Ron, holding his cloak to his nose. "Where is everyone?"

There was hardly anyone there. But even if there was anyone, they could hardly see anything with the thick mist ahead of them. It didn't help that it was almost night. But even the light of the moon, even at this height, didn't make it through the thick, icy fog. Their anxious breaths merged with it like whiskey to water. They looked around with cautious and guarded postures. Abandoned shop stations lingered in the center, barrels were overturned beside the doors, sign posts hung lopsided, wagons were abandoned. And yet, the icy feeling in Ron's stomach amplified. Everything smelled and felt like death. It was almost surreal in that aspect.

"You reckon we've been tricked?" asked Neville, tripping over an abandoned stuffed female doll in the center.

"Dunno," replied Ron, his voice barely above a whisper. "I thi–" But suddenly, a hoarse breath came from behind them. It was as if someone was breathing down their necks.

"D'you hear that?" whispered Barty, his wand drawn. Ron almost kicked himself for not thinking of that sooner.

So much for Auror training.

"Hear, what?" blanched Neville.

But Barty was glancing at something behind Ron and Neville. Though Ron couldn't see his eyes, he could tell that the younger man was shocked. He stepped back, almost as if repulsed by something. And as Ron and Neville glanced back, they paled at the sight before them. The creature looked almost like a long cloak, but they could tell that it was alive by the way that it was gliding. It looked a large bat that had its wings outstretched. It had a dark-clothed figure covered from head to toe, eerily similar to a Dementor. It looked to have a slight fold in the center, where Ron assumed was where its mouth was. But unlike the Dementor, it didn't seem to care about them. Instead, it simply glided through the gap between Neville and Ron and slinked away. The other two sighed in relief.

"Blimey," breathed Ron, his eyes glued on the creature. "That's no Dementor!"

"No," said Neville, his face pale. "It's a Lethifold."

"A Lethi–what?"

"They're like Dementors," explained Neville, his voice trembling with poorly concealed trepidation. "but they only attack you if you're sleep."

"Well, that's a relief," Ron puffed out a breath. "If I had something like that breathing down my neck, I won't even bother blinking."

"But what are they doing here?" asked Barty. He looked, if possible, even paler than before.

"Reckon it's got something to do with the villagers?"

"Dunno."

But as Neville and Barty conversed, Ron froze in place. There, down in the nearby wooden house that they were standing beside, a wide eyed woman and, what seemed like, her daughter were silently standing behind their closed window and staring at Ron with vacant eyes. There didn't seem to be any acknowledgement or even any recognition in their eyes, even though he was dressed like an Auror. Ron gradually grew even more uneasy.

Something was terribly wrong.

"Er," he began, drawing the attention of the other two. "I think I've found the villagers." He pointed at the two individuals standing behind their windows.

A part of him was relieved that the other two could see them as well.

"Should we ask them what's going on?" asked Neville, frowning. But before they could consider the matter, Barty already started walking.

"Oi," barked Ron. "Wait up, will you?"

"But–" stammered Neville. "But we haven't discussed this."

The other two ignored him. Instead, they approached the door. There was an aloft signpost above the lantern at the side of the house, banging on the wall. The post was rather worn and cracked, almost as if it had been there years ago. Barty met Ron's gaze and tilted his head towards the door. Ron gave him a firm nod before he rapped loudly on the wooden door.

"Oi," barked Ron, ignoring Neville who had scurried towards them. "Aurors here! Open up! We've got questions."

But no one answered. And Ron tried again. "Listen," he warned. "If you don't open this door in the next three seconds, we're blasting our way through."

Neville flinched. "Ron–"

"One!"

Neville scrambled forth. He tried to grab for Ron's wrist, but Barty held him back and shook his head. "Two!" shouted Ron, his wand drawn at the door. "Three!"

Finally, the door was blasted open. They had to duck their heads in case any sharp wood stabbed into them. But as they straightened up, they looked inside and found a fairly dark room. A strong whiff of rotten flesh overwhelmed them, and they fought the urge to retch. Not to mention, there was a dull, incessant _thump_ coming from inside. It was almost rhythmic.

"I dunno what's less sane," said Ron grimly, grimacing against the strong stench. "My head, or this blasted village." The floorboards creaked and groaned under their feet as they stepped into the home. Everything was dark with only the faint light of the evening illuminating the inside. As they opened the door, however, it snapped and collided loudly against the floor. Neville paled but shot Ron an uneasy look.

"If you weren't sane," he said, illuminating his wand. "you wouldn't have asked that question, would you?"

"Fair enough," muttered Ron.

"Come on," said Barty, likewise illuminating his wand.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"What's that?" asked Neville, his voice betraying his fear.

"Dunno," said Barty, sounding calm. "Let's find out."

They stepped inside in a large room with bar stools and long, tall counters to the left of the room. There were several wooden chairs and tables arranged sloppily in the middle of the room, though they looked cracked and heavy with dust. The walls were stained with greenish-yellow mold. Large spider webs were drawn on the corners as well as the tables. The place smelled like rotten flesh, wine, and feces. It was almost hard to breathe in there.

"It's . . ." began Ron, disgusted. "a–pub?" But what caught their attention was not the pub itself. In fact, it was the numerous bodies sprawled across the whole lengths of the room. There looked to be about a dozen of them; some sprawled on the tables, their legs dangling. Some leaning against the walls, some leaning against each other. One of the men even had his head buried in a beer barrel, and there was no doubt in their minds that he had died there.

"What the hell happened?" breathed Neville, his eyes with horror.

"Are they–" asked Ron weakly. "dead?" But Barty stepped up. The other two watched dimly as he approached a nearby table and knelt down besides one of the bodies. He stuck two fingers near the man's neck.

"No," said Barty, rising to his feet and looking around, his eyes lingering on the bodies on the floor. "They're still breathing. They're asleep . . . or stunned."

"Or both," suggested Neville.

Barty shrugged. "I suppose."

Frowning, Ron reached next to one of the bodies sprawled along the table. This one looked a bit old, somewhere around his fifties. He reached up to check his pulse before retracting.

"No," said Ron, his heart racing. "This one's dead." But as he looked around to study the perimeter, he paled at the figure behind the counters. "And–blimey–look at this."

Thump. Thump. Thump.

They turned to look across the bar counter only to find a shaggy, brown-haired man of about thirty years repeatedly beating his head over a stained glass window of a Thunderbird on the wall. They could see that the window was cracked, and there was blood dripping down from his head to his arms and onto the floor. But the man didn't seem to notice. His movements were rhythmic, almost as if he didn't feel any kind of pain. He didn't even notice the three individuals that had entered the bar. To Ron, the man was clearly demented.

"What-What's he doing?" stuttered Neville, drawing forth his wand. The three took cautious steps towards the man.

"He's mental!" said Ron loudly.

"Excuse me, Sir," said Barty warily, his wand drawn. He leapt over the counter and tried to reach for the man's shoulder. "Are you all right? Look, we're Aurors–" But as Barty tried to approach him, the man whipped around, his eyes white and wide. With the swiftness of a deranged animal, he leapt onto Ron, who had just made his way towards him. Ron felt his breath knocked out of him as his head slammed on the edge of the counters behind him. He groaned. He felt dizzy and groggy, but he refused to give into unconsciousness. The two collapsed in a tangle of limbs. To Ron's utter bewilderment, the man began to claw wildly on Ron with his chapped nails, his blood dripping from his head.

"Oi!" bellowed Ron. "Gerroff!"

" _Stupefy_!" shouted Barty.

The man limped onto Ron. Breathing heavily, his head throbbing painfully, Ron disgustedly shoved him away. He took Neville's hand with a grimace before he straightened his robes. He hastily wiped the blood from his face.

"Quick thinking, Barty," breathed Ron, wiping sweat from his brow. This whole village was demented. The sooner they found out what was going on, the faster they got out.

"Don't mention it."

Ron watched dimly as Barty conjured ropes to wrap the man to the counter in case he woke up from the Stunning Charm.

"Why'd he attack you?" asked Neville, bewildered.

"He's lost his marbles," breathed Ron, running a hand through his hair. "Guess that's proof that not everything's all birds and butterflies."

"Good lesson for Rosè, don't you think?"

"Er–" Ron paused before he grimaced. "Yeah. When she's older, I s'pose."

Neville shook his head. "Coward."

"Look!" interjected Barty.

He pointed into a shadowed corner of the pub at the window sill that the woman and her daughter had sitting against. This time, they had their backs facing the Aurors. But they looked deathly still, almost as if they were dolls. Ron glanced out the window, trying to deduce what they were looking at. But they were looking at the same place that Ron and the others had been standing just moments ago. It didn't seem that the women had any acknowledgement nor care who was standing there. But as Ron approached, he nearly choked by the foul smell that drifted to his nose.

The three glanced at each other warily. They each drew their wands, their posture stiff and ready to leap at a moment's notice.

"Excuse me," began Barty, a hint of wariness in his tone. "Do you mind telling us what happened here?"

But the two didn't move. In fact, they remained deathly still.

"Hello?" said Ron, impatient. He carefully moved forward. "They're not responding."

But Neville approached them first.

"Oi, we're Aurors," said Neville, reaching a hand for the mother's shoulder. "We're here to–" But then they stepped back with horror. As soon as Neville laid a hand on the woman's shoulder, the two collapsed backwards onto the floor, their heads lolling, their eyes wide open, their lips blue and pursed. There was a large, black tinge on their heads. Their skin looked flaky and decaying. Their smell foul and rotten. With disgust, Ron caught sight of a herd of maggots in the mother's ears. Their hair was clumped up, their fingernails ripped and brittle. The daughter, which looked to be in her middle teens, had her stomach bloated, her flesh peeking out the torn parts of her robes.

They were definitely dead.

"This whole village's barmy!" cried Ron, running an agitated hand through his hair.

"I don't think we should be here," said Neville shakily.

"We can't leave now," interjected Barty. "They need our help."

"But the Ministry–?"

"The Ministry didn't give a damn about them," said Barty firmly. He sounded frustrated. "You really think they would miss an entire village falling asleep? Look, this one's been dead for a while," he gestured to the woman and her daughter. "They must've died asleep. It's obvious, isn't it? They've set this one up."

"Then . . ." said Neville slowly, his eyes bulging. "the Aurors . . .?"

"They lied," said Barty flatly. "They haven't sent anyone. They led us here to die."

But Barty's words echoed in Ron's mind. He remembered Dumbledore warning him about the turbulent state of the Auror office. He had warned both him and Neville to take extra caution during their missions.

Barty was right.

"But who would want kill us?" asked Neville, glancing around warily.

"I dunno," said Barty, a hint of impatience in his tone. "The villagers?"

Ron remembered the man that had leapt on them and agreed with Barty. So much for a new recruit, he thought grimly. They were supposed to be teaching him, not the other way around. But the thought quickly banished. Ron's eyes widened at the three dark-clothed figures behind Barty and Neville.

"Er–" he began, his wand drawn. "I think I've found someone who will. Behind you!" He tackled Neville to the ground as a Curse barely missed them. It hit a glass vase behind them, which exploded on contact. Suddenly, the bookcase in front of them toppled and nearly fell over them until Neville levitated it up. They rolled out from beneath it, but Ron hurled it over the incoming Death Eater while Neville disarmed the other and hit on the head with a beer bottle. Panting, they looked up and found Barty shaking himself out a pile of rubble. Apparently, he and the last Death Eater that he had dueled had fallen in it. Ron rushed to his side and tried to help him up, but Barty waved his hand away. Breathing heavily, they started to search the bodies for any hints. But there was little that they could find.

"Death Eaters!" asked Neville, panting from the duel. "Here?"

"Dolt," said Ron, rolling his eyes. "That's why we're here."

"Oh, right," blinked Neville, flushing slightly. "But where did they come from?"

"Probably acting like four year olds," said Ron, disgusted. He kicked the Death Eater near him for good measure. "Hiding inside the houses, I reckon."

"They're not Death Eaters."

Ron and Neville shot Barty startled looks.

"What?"

"How d'you know?" demanded Ron. He had to admit. Something about Barty was suspicious. His mannerisms, his tone, his dueling style. He almost opened his mouth to voice his thoughts before Barty knelt down beside the Death Eater and flicked aside the robe sleeve.

"They haven't got the Dark Mark," explained Barty, almost impatient. "And I didn't reco –" he paused and shook his head. "Er, nevermind."

"Barty?"

"Let's check the rest of the village," said Barty hastily before he turned to walk to the door. The other two followed him with a hint of wariness.

"Right."

As they descended further down the trail, a strange loud rattle pierced the stillness of the night. Glancing warily at each other, they slowly followed the sound and turned the corner only to be identify the source of the sound.

To their amazement, at the end of the trail was a large clearing of land that was separated far beyond the wooden houses of the village. In the center of the trail, however, was a large, enchanted golden cage that contained a large, dragon-sized bird that looked almost like a Phoenix, screeching and batting its wings fiercely against the thick chains that wrapped around its neck and feet. Its beak was black and sharp. Its plummage consisted of red and black zigzags all across its chest. As it twisted on its chains and flapped furiously, a billowing wind crossed them, and they had to duck their heads to avoid getting dust in their eyes.

But as they squinted their eyes open, they realized with amazement that the bird was rapidly changing colors: purple, yellow, blue, red.

"Blimey," breathed Ron, his eyes wide and bulging. "Is that–?"

"The Thunderbird," breathed Neville.

"Merlin's pants!" cried Ron, absentmindedly inching forward. But the Thunderbird squawked and flapped its wings in return. "What've they done to it?"

"They've chained it," said Neville, a look of awe on his face. "I think it's protected by the Ministry. You know, by the Naturalists. For researching and what not."

Suddenly, a strong wind crossed them. With startled cries, they drew their cloaks over their faces, grimacing against the billowing winds conjured by the Thunderbird. The latter didn't seem to like them very much, Ron supposed.

"It really does like a Phoenix," breathed Barty.

"And it's changing colours," added Ron.

"If the Ministry's been protecting the Thunderbird," said Neville thoughtfully. "Why haven't they protected the villagers? Surely they knew about it?"

"With almost a thousand people on their death beds," replied Barty. "I doubt they didn't."

"Then, why didn't they–?"

But they stopped.

There, as they moved closer to the wrestling Thunderbird, they froze at the sight that they witnessed behind it. Behind the Thunderbird, there looked to be some sort of person – a guard, Ron supposed – lying back first on the ground. But what nauseated Ron was the fact that there were several seagulls huddled around the seemingly dead man ripping apart bits of flesh from the man and consuming it. Ron resisted the urge to vomit. Who the hell was responsible for all this? How many villagers were here exactly – a thousand? How many of them were dead or asleep? How many of them had died asleep?

"Does the Ministry have a say on whether I'll be live enough to get back to my kids?" enquired Ron, grimacing. But suddenly, a cloaked figure glided near the man, chasing the seagulls away. Ron recognized it as a Lethifold. "Blimey, those Lethifolds are real . . . creepy."

"Weas–I mean, Ron," said Barty hastily, sounding rattled. "Can we talk–?"

"Look!" cried Neville, pointing a finger at the creature. With its cloak outstretched outwards, it knelt down, slinked on top of the dead man, and started to consume it. It was almost like a snail. Enclothing the prey before digesting it. Its figure moved like wavelengths with every segment of the human. In the darkness of the night, it was almost like a night-time comforter. But a comforter that didn't comfort. Hell, that was one comforter that Ron would _never_ buy Rosè.

"What are they doing?" staggered Ron.

"They're feeding off the villagers," blanched Barty. "Someone's sent the Lethifolds against them."

"How do we stop them?"

"Well," said Neville shakily, his eyebrows creased into a thoughtful frown. "If they're anything like Dementors–"

"Patronus Charm?"

Neville nodded.

"Right," he declared, drawing his wand. "Ready?"

"Wait," interjected Barty, stepping back into the shadows. "I can't cast the Patronus Charm."

But the other two ignored him. They hurried to the man and drew their wands to cast their Patronus Charms. As their Patronuses hurried to chase the Lethifold, the Lethifold slinked away, leaving a dark trail in its trail. It was almost hard to see it. It almost blended in with the night, but the Patronus Charms cast a reassuring illumination before they, too, vanished, leaving them drenched in darkness. But as Neville turned around to light the lanterns perched near the doors of the houses, Ron rounded on Barty.

"You're a bloody Auror," snapped Ron, the night taking its toll on his temper. "You can't cast the Patronus Charm?"

But Barty staggered back, seemingly unsettled. "Well, I–" he stammered, caught off guard. "I didn't–I never–"

"Come on," interjected Neville, throwing a warning glare at Ron. "Let's check the other houses."

Together, they followed Neville across the daunting trail, with Ron throwing furtive looks at Barty. Sometimes, he seemed like an expert, someone that knew what he was talking about. He was fairly skilled and quite adept for a person without prior experience in the field. But these basic weakness . . . What kind of Auror didn't know how to cast the Patronus Charm, anyway?

But finally, Neville stopped near a home tucked between the slopes of two small hills. To their bewilderment, they discovered that the door to the house was ajar, as if someone had broken through it. But beside the house, however, was a large, brown-haired mutt lying sideways on the ground, its claws extended outwards as if attacking someone. It was definitely dead. Glancing at each other, they entered the home on wary feet, their wands drawn and ready to pounce. But as soon as they entered, they came across a large room about the size of Hogwarts dormitory. At the far end of the room was a lit, brick fireplace with small tables with vases on top of them. Perched on top of the fireplace was a pot was filled with, what Ron suspected, was Floo powder.

But what caught their attention was, in fact, the large sofa sandwiched by two armchairs in front of the fireplace, a coffee table in front of them. To their surprise, there was an elderly shaggy-haired woman sitting on the sofa, trembling and rocking in place. They could even hear her muttering to herself.

"Finally," sighed Ron, stepping to the woman. "someone that can make sense of this madness."

"Hello, Madam," greeted Neville, stepping forward. But the woman continued to rock herself helplessly. "Sorry to intrude. We're Aurors, you see. And we're here to–"

But they froze.

The woman wasn't muttering at all. In fact, she elicited a quiet, deranged laughter that only those near her could hear her. But what startled them was the shard of glass that she had in her hands. Her hands were stained with blood. With a mad cackle, she glanced at them from behind shaggy hair and lifted the glass shard to her throat.

As soon as he realised what was happening, Ron cried:

"No, stop!"

"No!" shouted Neville, rushing to halt her movements. But the woman was too quick for them. With the swiftness of a predator, she sliced her throat and collapsed on the floor, her eyes wide, her mouth agape.

"This village–" muttered Ron, breathing heavily. "Merlin."

"There must something causing this," said Barty, stepping inside beside the woman. He knelt down and started to rummage through her clothes for any explanation.

"Like, what?" asked Ron, his arms flailing out. A part of him wished that Hermione was here. "A pit of madness or something?"

"No," said Barty, standing up. His gaze flickered across the small table in front of the sofa and at the fireplace. "Maybe it's a side effects or something. Let's think, what's something that's common in most people?"

Neville and Ron glanced at each other.

"Er," said Neville hesitantly. "Houses?"

Ron's gaze fixed on a crate of rotten fruit in a corner underneath a row of glass ornaments shaped like skulls. He struggled to suppress a grimace at the sight of spiders and maggots inside of it.

"Food . . .?" he suggested dully. "Whiskey?"

Neville frowned. "Whiskey?"

"I don't know about you," said Ron, almost defensively. "but my brothers and I bond with whiskey."

"That's it!" cried Barty.

The other two shot strange looks.

"Er – whiskey?" asked Neville, looking bewildered.

But Barty shook his head. They watched as he strode up to the small table in front of the sofa and picked up a glass of clear liquid inside of it.

"No," said Barty impatiently, holding up the glass. "It's a drink–it's water!" The other two approached him. He took out his wand and waved it against the chipped glass of water before the identity of the content inside was revealed.

"Draught of Living Death," breathed Ron, looking pale. With a sense of dread in his chest, he turned to Neville with wide eyes. "Isn't that–?"

"Permanent sleep," declared Neville gravely.

"Someone must've poisoned the water," said Barty.

"But-but didn't we learn in N.E.W.T classes," said Ron, suddenly feeling very ill. "Didn't Snape say that a high dosage is . . .?"

"Irreversible," nodded Neville, his face losing all color. "Yeah, he did."

"Can't be," said Barty simply. "There's the Wiggenweld Potion, isn't there?"

"But–"

"Look, we'll think about this later," waved Barty, stepping past the two towards the door. He didn't seem convinced by their conclusions. "For now, we can just–"

But as he reached the door, Barty suddenly froze in place. His posture stiff and tense, his face drained of all color. He stood, staring out the window from beside the door. Something outside seemed to have caught his attention.

Something was up.

"Barty?" asked Ron, throwing a wary glance at Neville.

Neville shrugged, looking worried.

Ron turned and tried to approach the younger man, but the latter didn't seem to register him. In fact, something outside of the window seemed to have horrified him. Frowning, Ron peered outside the window, but he couldn't find anything amiss. The village was still as dreary as ever. Irresistibly, he wondered if the atmosphere of the village had finally gotten to Barty's head. Confused, he tried to ask Barty what he was looking at before Barty spoke.

"Ron," breathed Barty, a hint of fear in his voice. "Can we talk?"

Ron frowned. "We are."

"No," said Barty impatiently. "I mean, privately. Sorry, Neville."

"It's all right," said Neville, looking slightly befuddled. Waving them away, he turned to lean against the wall. "I'll just wait here, then."

"Right."

Ron followed Barty out of the house and near a secluded area between two wooden homes. As soon as they stepped out, they were instantly drenched in darkness. Only the dim light from the lanterns nearby illuminated their faces while their shadows flickered along the ground. Everything was deathly silent except for their footsteps. As they turned to face each other, Ron noticed that Barty was still glancing around, almost as if he suspected that something ominous was near them.

"Something wrong, Barty?" asked Ron, a hint of concern in his voice. Barty looked tense and uneasy, a far cry from the composed Auror that Ron had met hours ago.

"Ron," said Barty tersely. "The Order's in trouble."

Ron flinched back, almost stumbling into a broken lantern on the ground.

"What?"

"The Order," repeated Barty impatiently. "Someone's sold them out. They're going to be killed. Tonight. Before midnight."

Ron flinched at the bluntness. "What?" breathed Ron, his eyes wide with horror, his mind clouded with disbelief. "But–they can't be. Dumbledore–"

"He doesn't know," interposed Barty hastily. "Look, you've got to tell them. Someone's charmed the coins to throw them off–"

"How did you know?" demanded Ron, drawing forth his wand. Who the hell was he, anyway? And how did he get that information?

Barty stepped back in defense. "You've got to listen to me," said Barty, a hint of frustration in his tone. "There's no time–"

"Like hell I'll listen to you," snapped Ron, his wand leveled at Barty. "No one knows that information but members of the Order."

"What are you–?"

"Who are you?" demanded Ron, his eyes narrowed. "I doubt you're the real Barty. You're a bloody imposter, aren't you?"

To Ron's surprise, Barty sighed. He shot Ron a wary look before he reached up to point his wand at his hair and his glasses. With shock, Ron watched dumbly, vaguely aware that his own wand was still pointed at the younger man, as Barty's messy brown-hair turned coal black. He then reached up to remove his glasses and took out a light, rounder pair of glasses that looked eerily familiar. When he finished, he looked and Ron could finally see his eyes. Staggering back with disbelief, Ron locked eyes with the bottle-green eyes of the one person that he had never expected to see ever again.

It was Harry.

"It's me," said Harry, a hint of unease in his tone. "It's Harry."

"I know who you are," he breathed, his lips dry. He didn't know how to feel. He was both elated and frustrated to see his friend here after all these years, though it was clear Harry didn't recognise him judging by his guarded expression He hadn't had time to study his friend back in the Ministry, but he couldn't believe how much his friend had grown.

Well . . . _f_ _ormer_ friend.

"W-What are you doing here, Harry?" Ron stammered, but Harry simply shot him an annoyed look. "Why're you here?"

"I _told_ you," said Harry irritably. "The Order's in trouble–"

"Right," replied Ron, a bite in his tone. As the shock effaced, his wits slowly returned to him. "As if you give a damn about the Order. You can't fool me, Harry."

"Well, I'm here now, aren't I?" snapped Harry, his green eyes flashing. "You think I'll go through all that trouble just to mess with you?"

Ron gritted his teeth, frustrated. "I don't know," snapped Ron, his arms flailing. "No one knows what the hell your intentions are, Harry. We thought we knew you once, but we haven't got a bloody clue who you are anymore."

"I don't know myself," said Harry flatly, glaring at the lantern perched on the house next to them. In the dim light, Ron could see the deep bags under his eyes; he looked exhausted.

"Wha–?"

"Look," said Harry firmly, running an agitated hand through his hair. "Your dad sent me here–"

"My _dad_?"

"Yes," said Harry, frustrated. "He's in trouble. Look, Ron, that man you've been living with. He's an impost–"

But Harry froze. Ron was too busy trying to process the information that he missed Harry's eyes widening and his face paling at the sight of something behind Ron. Once again, Ron followed his gaze. But he couldn't see anything besides the rugged, stone ground and the empty shop stations of the village. Turning around, he found that Harry was still looking fixedly at that spot, the flame from the lantern nearby reflecting in his green eyes.

Warily, Ron tried to approach him.

"Harry?"

But Harry retracted violently. Masking his surprise, he startled when he found Harry's wand leveled at his chest.

"Stay away from me!" yelled Harry, taking several steps back away from Ron. But his wand never wavered from Ron's chest. It was clear that something had unnerved him.

"Wha –?" sputtered Ron, shaken by Harry's sudden mood change.

"Go!" shouted Harry. "Get out of here! You can't stay here!"

"What are you on about?" demanded Ron, trying to step closer to him. But the more he stepped, the more Harry moved back. "What happened to you?"

"It's a trap!" breathed Harry. "I shouldn't be out here!"

"What's –?"

"Ron –" struggled Harry, his voice shaking. "Hepizbah Smith's case –"

Ron's eyes widened.

"How did you know?"

"Ron – I was there," he said, breathing heavily. "It was _me._ "

"What are you playing at?" said Ron, his heart racing. "Look, just hear me out – "

"No!" bellowed Harry. "It was me! I killed the three of them – Harper Narsfish, Bimini Bane, Stephen Carter. They were _my_ victims –"

"What?" breathed Ron, a brief shake of his head. "But you _couldn't_ have!"

"And you're next," swallowed Harry. "They're setting me up. They want me to kill you. The Ministry wants you dead!"

"Harry –"

"They knew I'd help you," muttered Harry, almost like he was speaking to himself. "They knew all along. That's why Voldemort gave me my wand back. He _knew_."

Ron carefully stepped forward. "Look, Harry," reassured Ron, tucking his wand away. He tried to approach Harry, but Harry continued to shake his head. "We can figure this out –"

"Stay away!" snapped Harry, his teeth clenched. "I brought him here." At the statement, Harry's chilled gaze shifted from Ron and stilled on something behind Ron.

Ron's heart sank.

"Who?" he breathed in horror.

But before he could elaborate, he felt something hit him square on the back. He felt himself falling and falling. He was unconscious before he reached the ground. Another _thump_ was heard from indoors, and Harry knew that Longbottom was down, too. With a sense of dread in his heart, his face paler than usual, Harry looked up at the dark-clothed figure in front of him, his heart racing in his chest.

There, beneath the hood, was the two distinctive red eyes of Lord Voldemort. He gave Harry a smirk from the other side of Ron's unconscious body.

"Well done, Harry."

. . . . . . . .

With a dull sense of reality, Ron groaned, his head bowed towards his chest. He felt groggy and numb. He tried to squint his eyes open but hissed when the faint glow of a yellow light pierced his eyes. He tried to move his limbs but found that his hands were wrapped up in thick shackles. He was dangling from two separate chains on the wall, almost like a snow angel. Carefully, he squinted his eyes open and groaned when he finally registered how deep of a pain he was in. The right side of his head throbbed like the beating of a drum, his torso and chest area were bleeding profusely, his wrist felt immobile and probably even had some broken bones. It was as if someone had deliberately broke the wrist on his wand arm.

"Welcome back," said a dull voice.

Ron blinked several times. He was inside one of the homes, a living room to be exact. But the chairs and sofas were tucked away to the corners of the wall while the center remained large and empty. Several candles illuminated the dark room. He looked around and there were torn portraits on the wall, mold and hanging moss near the corners, spiders skittering across the aloft floorboards underneath the torn rug on the floor. He looked beside him and found three hooded Death Eaters leaning against the wall that he was strapped to. Their arms were crossed. Their heads bowed beneath their hoods. They stayed mostly silent.

But what caught his attention was, in fact, the tall, dark-clothed figure near the corner of the wall. It seemed he had changed his robes again. He was standing away from the light, in a shadowed corner of the wall, twirling his wand idly in his hand. His dark, messy hair blended with the background, his pale countenance providing a stark contrast to the black. And though, he wasn't looking up, Ron could see a faint string of red from his downcast eyes.

"He's here," murmured Harry, his eyes still averted.

"H-Harry?" rasped Ron, the blood dripping from his head caused a rough, metallic taste in his mouth. Not to mention, the rotten stench of flesh from the village didn't help, either. He was feeling very nauseous and unsettled by the situation.

Blinking away dark patches from his eyes, Ron took a while to understand what Harry had meant. Groaning, he let his head fall forwards, trying to shake the grogginess out his system. But as soon as he opened them, the red eyes explained to him who exactly Harry was talking about.

"You bastard," breathed Ron, his teeth gritted. He wrestled fiercely against the thick chains. "You brought him here, didn't you?"

The pain in his head was agonizing. It felt like someone had beat him repeatedly with the back hinge of a sword. He almost wanted to give in to unconsciousness, but the sight of Harry's cold, red gaze was enough for him to stay awake.

"Don't pretend to care," said Harry lazily, twirling his wand idly in his fingers. He didn't even bother himself to meet Ron's gaze. Nor did he care about his position.

"He'll _kill_ them!"

"They're dead, anyway."

"What happened to you, Harry?" demanded Ron, adjusting himself to face Harry. "Why's Voldemort keeping you?"

Harry shot him a cold look.

"Why shouldn't he?"

"Bollocks," said Ron furiously. "You know why that is."

"Do I?"

"Oh, right, I forgot," said Ron darkly, trying to provoke something out of Harry. "Or hang on. _You_ forgot, didn't you? You forgot everything."

"Think you're being funny, Weasley?"

"What's he promised you?" continued Ron, unfazed by Harry's irritation. "Fame? Glory? Riches? Anything you haven't got already?"

"Is that what Dumbledore told you?" asked Harry dully, his eyes fixed on the wand in his hand. Judging by the faint crease on his forehead, he was slowly losing patience with Ron.

"So you're against Dumbledore now?" asked Ron through gritted teeth. He almost felt like he was talking to a different person completely. There was no hint of Harry at all.

"I thought that was obvious," said Harry coldly.

Ron paused. He narrowed his eyes and gave Harry a long look. He knew that Harry was possessed, but he didn't think that Harry would be _that_ different. It was almost like a complete reversed version himself. Everything that the true Harry was but on the opposite plane of the axis. It was like looking at a mirror reflection of him, a reflection that looked eerily like Riddle. From the arrogant aura that he exuded to even the physical features.

"You're not Harry," said Ron quietly.

Harry straightened. "Not really," he replied dully, waving a hand. He walked across and stopped beside a torn portrait on the wall. "I'm what's left of him."

"Yeah?" challenged Ron, his temper flaring. "And going through all that trouble just to warn me about the Order isn't the _real_ you? Helping the prisoners escape isn't what the _real_ Harry would've done?"

Harry shot Ron a long look before he neared a small window at the left of the house. He looked outside with a faraway look in his eyes, his hands tucked in his pockets. Only the faint light of the moon illuminated half of his face.

"Harry would never burn down this village," muttered Harry, his eyes fixed outside. In the dim light, he looked weary and exhausted.

Despite his cutting words, there was a hint of _humanity_ in him.

"Is that what you're planning?" asked Ron, his heart racing.

Harry shot him a furtive glance. "This village's dead no matter what happens," he replied firmly. "Wake them up, they'll start hurting others. Keep them asleep, they'll sleep until they're dead. Why does it matter what happens to them, Weasley?"

"They're still _alive_!"

Harry raised a brow.

"And?"

"You're bloody killing them!"

"It doesn't matter."

"You'd say the same about your parents?" demanded Ron, unable to believe what he was hearing. "They _died_ for you, Harry."

"They stood in the way of the Dark Lord."

"Dark Lord?" scoffed Ron, shaking his head. "That's rich coming from someone like you. Your mother died to save you, and you'd think she'd want you killing almost a thousand people, let alone burning them alive?"

"A few thousand for the rest of the world?" contended Harry, raising a brow. "Why not?"

Ron gritted his teeth. "And Sirius?" challenged Ron. "You nearly ran into the veil after him if Remus hadn't caught up to you."

"Sirius got what he deserved," replied Harry coldly.

"That's not what you think," retorted Ron.

"Right. Because you can tell me how I think," said Harry irritably. He approached Ron until they were almost at an arm's length of each other. "You think you've got talent, Weasley? You think that everyone loves you for you? They only started noticing you after _I_ left, remember? They only give a damn about you because you've been replacing _me_. Once I'm back, they won't give a rat's arse who _you_ are."

Ron flinched.

To hear those words from Harry hurt more than anything else that night. To hear him mock his insecurities when he had always been the first to reassure him. To accept that part of him. To never mock that side of him, was something that he had always admired about Harry, moreso than perhaps anyone else.

Trying not to look hurt, he gritted his teeth. "You were never like this, Harry," his voice strained, struggling to keep his emotions at bay. "This isn't you."

Harry shot him a cold look.

"No," he replied flatly. "He's dead."

Turning around, he strode across to the wall on the other side and leaned back against it with his arms crossed. The other three Death Eaters gave them both wary and curious looks. But, true to Harry's word, they didn't interrupt.

"Rubbish!" snapped Ron, trembling with fury. "You were the one that was always there for me! Not my parents! Not Hermione! It was you! It was always you!"

Harry raised a brow.

"You think it matters what happened in the past?"

"Like hell I do," snapped Ron. "Maybe you don't remember who you were before, but I do. And I won't give into your talks, Harry. I know it's all lies."

"How's Hermione – missing me?"

"Shut your trap!" wrestled Ron. No _way_ was he letting Harry meddle with his emotions. "You don't even know her! You've forgotten her, remember?"

"And your dad?" challenged Harry, his red eyes flashing. "Must be hard not to walk on two feet again?"

"What have you done to him?" asked Ron furiously, wrestling against the chains around his wrists. "If you hurt him, I'll bloody kill –"

"Oh, I'm dead enough," replied Harry flatly, walking across to Ron. "You see, Weasley. You're no different than I am. Why not ditch the Order and come along with us? We've got enough room for traitors."

Ron gritted his teeth. He knew that Harry wanted to provoke him, but he refused to give in.

"I'll join you when Hell freezes over," spat Ron, his head throbbing. He knew that he shouldn't be getting all riled up in this state, but Harry was playing with fire.

"We'd be friends again," mocked Harry, a challenging look in his eyes. "Isn't that you've always wanted?"

"I'll never be friends with the likes of you!" snapped Ron.

"I suppose not," replied Harry dully. "But I've found someone who will," he turned to nod at the Death Eaters. "All right, Longbottom?"

To Ron's horror, the three Death Eaters were carrying a bloody and deeply bruised figure from under his armpits. His body was littered with broken bones, large gashes filled and open wounds, his face almost obliterated by the overwhelming amount of blood that dripped from his head and neck. Ron almost didn't recognise him. He looked groggy and barely conscious. As soon as the Death Eaters let go, he slumped down on the floor, his breathing heavy.

Ron grew feverish.

"Let him go, Harry!" shouted Ron, panic undulating under his skin. "You don't want to do this!"

But Harry ignored him. He shot him a 'you started this' glare before he turned on his heels and walked up to the sprawled figure on the floor.

"Harry!" choked Ron, fighting helplessly against the chains. "For bloody's sake, Harry!"

Harry moved to stand over Neville. "I'll give you a choice," he offered quietly. "You can choose to save the Order or this blasted village. Your move, Weasley."

"You think I'll give into your pathetic threats, Harry?" spat Ron, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest. The blood falling from head to his mouth felt bitter and tasteless. "You think I give a damn what you're on about?"

"I don't think I've made my point clear enough, have I?" challenged Harry, his eyes pinning Ron to his spot. "Well, then – On your head, be it."

Harry waved his wand. Suddenly, a small, yellow object zoomed out of his robes and into his hand. He caught it with the skill of a Seeker.

"No!" panicked Ron. He knew that he was exacerbating his wounds by wrestling wildly against the chains, but he was far beyond thinking of himself at the moment. "Neville!"

The world felt dim and hazy. He didn't know exactly what Harry was planning on doing. Or even if he was truly planning something. Surely he wasn't serious. Surely a part of him recognised his friends. He would never take the lives of an innocent. It had been hard to believe that someone as selfless as Harry could actually be so cruel. But now he was going to see it in action, in front of him so there was no room for denial. Judging by the unyielding look in Harry's eyes, there was definitely trouble.

"There's a charm placed on it," explained Harry, holding up the coin and waving a wand at it. "At midnight, the letters will rearrange themselves to spell the word 'death.'" he shot Ron a glare and lifted the coin. "Let this be a lesson for what will happen to the rest of them, Weasley."

As if watching in slow motion, Ron saw the coin drop right onto Neville. His breath hitched in his throat. His vision dim and hazy like a mantle of mist had stifled his wits. He was almost suffocating. He watched numbly as Neville began convulsing violently and sinking into himself, as if struggling to quench the pain. After what seemed like an eternity, he slumped back, lying in a pool of his own blood. His eyes wide open. His mouth agape into a scream. His body still and vacant.

His friend. His partner. His co-worker. His classmate. The person he had long teased, sometimes even cruelly for years. Sometimes kindly. Sometimes affectionately. The one who was so painfully insecure about himself, just like Ron himself had once been.

Forever still.

"NO!" roared Ron, tears springing in waterfalls down his face. His mind was in a frenzy, his vision blurred with agony and denial.

"What's death but another version of sleep?" muttered Harry, his red eyes fixed on the body. But his voice sounded distant to Ron. Like something out of a nightmare. "Quick. Painless. Like falling sleep after a long day. Something I've always wished for."

As if the fog had cleared, Ron finally registered exactly what had happened. He knew it. Even though it hurt him to acknowledge. Even though it pierced his heart . . . He couldn't _possibly_ deny what just happened.

 _Harry_ had killed _Neville_.

"You BASTARD!" bellowed Ron, fighting against the chains like a feral feline. He was breathing heavily, his eyes drenched in tears. But his heart thundered with hatred - with _revenge._ With the reckless desire to ring Harry's neck.

"Your choice, Weasley," said Harry coldly.

"You bloody bastard!" roared Ron, trembling with hot, boiling fury that almost blinded him. "I'll snap your bloody –"

"We're done here," interjected Harry stiffly, unperturbed by the outburst. Thoroughly ignoring Ron, he turned to nod curtly at the other three Death Eaters. Without another glance, he followed the three Death Eaters to the door, their cloaks fluttering behind them.

But then, Ron's wits kicked in. Or instinct, even. His instinct to save others. What he had strove to accomplish as an Auror. He had become an Auror because he had wanted to prove his worth. To prove that he didn't need to lean anyone. He didn't need help from anyone. That he was capable on his own. That he wasn't the person who had once failed his friend. He wanted to _help_ others. The same way that he had wanted to help Harry.

If Harry walked out that door, the village was toast.

"Harry," struggled Ron, swallowing. "Harry, you're making a mistake. Don't do this."

He hated that he was using the name "Harry" at all. A part of him was boiling on the inside. He wanted so much to rip that _demon_ apart limb by limb for what he had done. Not only to Neville, but the row and row of bodies that Ron had to bury with his own hands: men, women, and children. But a part of him, a large part of him, recognised his friend. He was there.

He had to be.

Harry halted in his tracks and glared back at him.

"Why are they so important to you, Weasley?" asked Harry accusingly. "They can't think like you. They can't feel like you. Why does it matter what happens to them?"

"They're _innocent_ ," insisted Ron. "It's _our_ job to protect them, not kill them."

" _Your_ job, you mean," Harry shot back.

"Harry, this is _stupid_ –"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "This isn't about the villagers, is it?" he asked accusingly, moving towards Ron. "You're trying to save yourself, aren't you?"

"I'm trying to save _you_ from yourself!" stressed Ron, wrestling against the chains around his wrists. "I know you'd regret this, Harry! I don't need Albus bloody Dumbledore to know that you'd kill yourself for this!"

Harry's eyes darkened.

"I'm far past that."

"There's always a chance to start over," said Ron. He didn't know why he was trying to reason with him, especially after he had killed Neville.

But just because someone died didn't mean that others couldn't be saved, right?

"You don't understand," said Harry, a hint of weariness in his tone. His coldness was fading judging by the way his shoulders slumped slightly.

"You're not a coward, Harry," said Ron, shaking his head. "You never were. Don't let him get to you."

"It's too late."

"It's never too late."

Harry shot him a dark look. "Funny," he said dryly, his gaze cold again. "You sound like Dumbledore."

"Well, he's the only one that's got any common sense nowadays," said Ron bitterly. He couldn't help but feel a bit unnerved that Harry was challenging Dumbledore.

"Common sense?" said Harry, a brow lifted. "You think Dumbledore's ideas of love and compassion is common sense?"

"I'm surprised you don't," said Ron darkly.

Harry snorted.

"How about a story, Weasley?"

Ron snapped. "I don't give a rat's _arse_ what you've –!"

"You want to know why the Dark Lord's kept me alive?" challenged Harry. "I'll tell you."

"You're a part of him, I know," said Ron impatiently.

"That's half of it. It's more than that."

Ron froze. Something in Harry's demeanor had changed, almost like a glacier had melted. He shot Ron a cold look before he turned to lean against one of the walls besides a bookcase, facing Ron. He stood with his arms crossed, his head bowed, staring at nothing in particular. Ron had a million questions racing through his head but wisely decided to stay silent. Something about Harry's pensive demeanor had shook him.

It was almost familiar.

"It starts with this scar," said Harry, pointing his finger at his cheek. The scar spanned from across his cheek to his earlobe.

Ron frowned.

"I don't –"

"I was twenty-one, then," he began, his voice quiet but thoughtful. There was almost no emotion in his voice, almost as if he was reading off a script. "But I knew what it was like to have blood on my hands. I knew how much power it took to cast the Killing Curse. I've seen it enough. I've used it enough–since I was sixteen. I knew it better than my own name . . . but you know that."

Ron gritted his teeth.

He couldn't stand looking at him. Let alone listening to him. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on the sprawled body of Neville on the floor.

He couldn't believe it. Harry's tone was so void of emotion – so void from the usual amiable voice that he always used to have around his friends. There was nothing there. Not in his voice. Not in his expression. Not in his posture. Nothing that was familiar to Ron. It didn't feel like Harry.

But it was.

"Yeah," spat Ron, coughing up blood on the floor. "You left me souvenirs. I had to bury your victims, Harry."

 _Along with the shadows, he travelled. Almost invisible. Almost transparent. Almost supernatural. Wherever the light travelled, at the deepest corner, underneath the largest shade, he moved. Gliding almost like a Dementor. He knew that he was getting closer. He just had to listen to the voice in his head. He just had to do what he was told. To stop the pain. To end his suffering. To become the person that he was always meant to be._

 _To erase his past._

 _Completely._

 _There was no moon tonight. Even the last light of the night had hidden, in a fruitless attempt to delay the inevitable. In a fruitless attempt to stop the motion of the shadows. But what was simply was._

 _Tick. Tock. Tick._

 _Silent. His demons had given him the gift of insight, the gift of knowledge. The agonizing thirst to quench his curiosity, to test the limits – the boundaries! Of all that existed. Of all the borders that we, as humans, define. Why were certain actions wrong? What's the point of justice? Of death? Of suffering? Why couldn't a life be taken? Why couldn't innocents be slain? Who dictated what was right or wrong?_

 _Or was there ever a dictator at all?_

 _Tick. Tock. Tick._

 _As he treaded down the trail towards the dark silhouette of the house, he didn't leave footprints. How can he? No, he would only leave footprints – only leave evidence that he had existed – when he returned. He would make himself someone later. The past didn't exist. There was no evidence of the past. There was only the future._

 _Carefully, he opened the door, the door creaking and whining at his inevitable fate. It screamed at him to stop. To turn back. To rewind time. For a second chance at redemption. A second chance at essence. But there was only the creaking upon opening the door. Not upon closing._

 _Tick. Tock. Tick._

 _He entered, still draped in shadows. He nearly recoiled when he heard the soft hum of a woman at the left of the living room. He couldn't stand it. It hurt. It was too demonic. Too inhumane. Like drawing a knife along glass._

 _Tick. Tock. Tick._

 _He stayed close to the edges of the wall to avoid the dim light of the lamp in the center. The shadows guided him. Welcomed him. Praised him. And so comforted, the hum of the woman faded from his mind, even though she was still humming. He didn't hear her. He only heard the boisterous cheers of the shadows._

 _Tick. Tock. Tick._

 _Finally, he reached the room. This time, he had to step into the light. But he stood in the doorway, the whisper in his head telling him that he had arrived. His back deflected the light of the lamp from the outside so that only his dark silhouette and his shadow on the floor entered the room. In the dim light, only his red eyes gleamed from underneath the shadows._

 _But the woman didn't notice. She was too busy rocking her wailing, infant child in her arms. But he didn't hear her hums. Or her soothing words. Instead, he stood silently until his shadow extended to her line of vision._

 _Tick. Tock. Tick._

 _She panicked, almost dropping her son in the process. With a cry that he didn't hear, she laid her son down in the crib and drew her wand to defend her son. He saw her mouth open, saw her lips moving, but he didn't move. He didn't block it. He let her cast the Cutting Curse. But she missed, and it zoomed past his cheek._

 _Some people might have felt pain._

 _But does a shadow feel anything? Did it even exist?_

"Of course, I've seen it enough," said Harry, his voice still distant. Still staring at nothing, it was almost as if he was in a different world. "I've seen it in my nightmares. You know – well, everyone knows . . . my mother's sacrifice. I knew what _not_ to do. I knew what would happen if I let her die for her son. So, I killed her first. I was sure I took her life before I turned to her son. There was no counter-curse, then. There was no _love_ to save him. I killed him, Weasley. And I left."

"You're sick," managed Ron, his face crunched up in disgust. He couldn't help but think of little Hugo in the crib, and Harry being his killer.

"I had to hide the evidence," continued Harry impassively. "I couldn't let the Order know, they were looking for me. So, I burned the home, I stood back and watched the fire take their bodies until there was nothing left. Almost as if they had never existed. Almost as if they had never lived at all. I looked at the fire, and I laughed. I didn't see what died there that night. I didn't see the mother or her son."

From his position on the wall, Ron thought that he saw a flicker of green cross Harry's eyes. But he didn't know if it was just from the yellow glow from the candles.

"The smoke was thick," said Harry, his voice quiet but pensive. "I could hardly see anything. Hardly see past it. I looked up, but I didn't see anything. No moon. No _meaning_. All I saw was the smoke, but it was familiar. Almost like I'd seen it before. Almost like I always knew it was there. Something I've always denied. And I realised that night . . . Dumbledore was wrong."

Harry straightened. Ron watched dimly as Harry leaned off the wall and slowly walked to him. He looked up at his former friend with a sense of dread in his heart. As they locked eyes, Ron realised that there _was_ specks of green in Harry's eyes.

"You want to know the real reason why Voldemort didn't kill me, Weasley?" said Harry, a steel gaze in his eyes. "I'll tell you. I'll tell you the reason why he's kept me alive after all these years."

Ron registered the use of "Voldemort" instead of the usual "Dark Lord." But his heart was racing. Suddenly, he didn't want to know the answer. Instead, he watched as the green specks of Harry's eyes trounced the red.

"You want to know what I saw that night, Weasley?" murmured Harry. "You want to know what I saw past the fire, the smoke, the ruins?"

Ron couldn't speak. He knew that Harry was slowly reverting back to his original state. But he couldn't speak over the sense of foreboding in his chest.

"Nothing," he whispered in a broken tone. His face was contorted with pain, his eyes dead green. "I saw nothing."

And it was only then did Ron realise that it wasn't Voldemort that was speaking anymore.

It was Harry. The _real_ Harry.

Feeling a deep wave of anguish cross him, he closed his eyes against the agonizing green eyes of his former friend and bowed his head. He couldn't meet his eyes. The green in his eyes scared him more – the anguish, the accusing gaze, the suffering. They hurt more than the red. In a way, he wished that they were red again. That way, he would know that it wasn't Harry speaking. He would know that Harry had never meant those words. That it was only Voldemort speaking through him.

But his confession hurt Ron more deeply than anything else that night. It was true. Harry had lost the will to live. Life was meaningless to him. His possession–his crimes were proof of that. It was something, to Ron, that was even worse than Death. To destroy someone from the inside did more damage than any type of physical harm. In a way, he would have preferred to see Harry dead rather than witness the remnants of what was left of him after ten years. He couldn't believe that someone as resilient and as hot-headed as Harry had actually perished.

He couldn't believe that he had abandoned his friend. It was their fault that Harry was like this. They should never have stopped looking for him.

In a way, Voldemort had won.

"Voldemort's right," whispered Harry, resignation in his posture. "There's nothing for me here."

Ron swallowed.

A voice in his head was deafening. He knew, deep inside, that Harry was wrong to think this way. There _was_ meaning in life. But he didn't know how to voice it. It was almost like an innate feeling. Something that couldn't possibly be explained.

And then, it clicked.

Something that only he and Harry knew about.

"What was it that you wanted most in this world, Harry?" asked Ron, his jaw clenched. He looked determinedly into Harry's green eyes.

Harry frowned.

"I don't –"

"Answer the question!" demanded Ron. "You know it, Harry. What was it? Your deepest heart's desire."

Harry gave him a long, strange look. He looked both irritated and disconcerted by the question. But if there was anything that could change his mind, it was what he had seen that night in the Mirror of Erised fifteen years ago.

But then, his eyes hardened. His gaze was cold again.

"To rest," he said flatly.

Ron stilled in shock. He watched dumbly as Harry's solemn expression shifted to a steel gaze. He nodded curtly at the Death Eaters guarding the room. The three left the room with their cloaks billowing behind them. Harry shot him one final distrustful look before he turned on his heels and walked away, his cloak fluttering behind him. Ron watched his retreating back with a dull sense of defeat in his insides.

He couldn't believe it.

That couldn't have been his answer. It must've been Voldemort talking, not Harry.

But an irritating voice in his head told him that Voldemort was too afraid of death. He would never have said that so clearly–so succinctly, with not a single ounce of hesitance in his tone.

No, it _was_ Harry.

And as he glanced at the still body of Neville lying spread eagle on the ground, a pool of blood around him, a heart-wrenching realisation crossed him as he heard the last echo of Harry's footsteps before the door slammed shut behind him.

They hadn't lost just one life that night.

They had lost two.

* * *

A/N: Writers should be arrested.

Erm . . . I am suffering from Watchmen withdrawal. It was so _sad_. So beautiful. I freaking _love_ Rorschach. So sad what happened to him. If you haven't read it, _go_ read it. I took a lot of inspiration from it, though (hint, Harry's monologue) since they both have the same MBTI type. Also, lots from Sandman as well, like the idea of the sleeping villagers. Sorry if it was too disturbing (not sorry).

Also, most chapters have been edited in terms of grammer and relevancy. I've been improving my writing a lot, so now, I think, previous chapters are easier to read. Basically, I've been cleaning up my writing. Also, Hephzibah Smith's thing with the Aurors was discussed back in Chapter 4, which I keep referencing back to. Look out for symbolism and literary devices as well (yes, I use them).

Oh, and why Harry remembers certain things over others, why he's possessed in the first place, the connection between himself and the Horcrux inside of him will be discussed in lengths in later chapters. So, stay tuned.

Also, whereabouts of the Horcruxes and origins of Magical creatures will be different from Canon. Anyway, hope you enjoy.

Not exactly the best friendship reunion, is it?

Review.


	14. Chapter 14: Checkmate

Spitting out mouthfuls of blood, Ron groaned and tried to shake the grogginess out of his system. He had been hanging there, shackled to the wall for almost two hours. He could feel the blood from his arms draining. His muscles felt uncomfortably tight and fatigued. His head was still throbbing as if his heart had somehow reached his brain. The blood from his head was still dripping down from his head to his cheek to the floor where it stained the carpet. With the amount of blood that he was losing, Ron knew that he didn't have much time left.

Hell, nor did anyone.

With the conversation of himself and Harry ringing through his head like funeral bells, he was almost tempted to just give in. In a way, Voldemort had won. If even Harry, who, in Ron's opinion, was the most stubborn person alive, had perished, what chance did the rest of them stand against someone so powerful and as clever as Voldemort? Was it better perhaps that they all died together? Was it better that they left Harry's good side to fight Voldemort, and even the dark part of himself, alone?

But then an image of his family flashed into his mind – of his parents, of Hermione, Rosè, and Hugo. He couldn't let them die in vain. He owed them his life. He didn't want to fail them like he had failed Harry or Neville. He should at least die trying. After all, there was still hope. As long as it wasn't midnight yet. That was what Harry had warned him. He could be lying, of course. But Ron didn't want to risk that thought. No. He had no time for doubts. He needed to get out of here . . .

But _how_?

He scanned the room, trying to think of something that would help him . . . But besides the chairs, sofas, and armchairs, there was nothing really useful. But then a thought crossed his head.

Maybe if he could bring something towards him . . .

His face crunched in concentration, he closed his eyes and tried to will the one object that would get him out of here.

' _Accio wand_!'

But nothing came to him.

Shit.

Groaning, he pointedly glared at the chains that he was attached to. He knew that they were enchanted to prevent him from using any spell. Funny . . . They were almost similar to the enchanted objects that the Aurors used. But he didn't have time to dwell on that.

Think, he thought firmly.

At the thought, he glanced to his left, his mind racing. He had to get out of here. There was a small, aloft window that Harry had been standing beside just moments ago. Ron looked outside. Through the thick mist ahead, he could see the faint blur of the moon above. That meant that he had about half an hour to save the Order. But how could he warn the Order in this state? He didn't have a wand. Nor did he have any means to unchain himself. He looked to his right and found Neville's lifeless body lying spread-eagled on the floor.

Feeling a jolt of pain, he quickly glanced away. But as he did, a thought occurred to him. Why the hell was _he_ still alive? Why hadn't Harry killed _him_? Did he really think that they were friends? Did he somehow remember Ron? But he couldn't have. He had given such a distrustful look before he had left. He hadn't recognized Ron. Even when he had reverted back to his own self. Even when his eyes were green again.

Then it dawned him.

Harry hadn't kept him alive out of an act of mercy. It was just that Voldemort hadn't commanded him to kill Ron. But why . . .? It must've been because of Ron's blood status, right? Ron remembered that Harry had invited him to join the Death Eaters. Of course, since being pureblood was a rare status nowadays. They didn't want to lose the most prominent pureblood family. They must be wanting him to join along. And Neville, of course, being the half-blood, had taken the bait basically. God, Neville . . . What were they going to tell Hannah? But almost as if a Hermione was ringing in his head, he redirected his attention on the task at hand.

That's it! he thought with fervor.

He was rather impressed with himself by the deduction. He knew what he needed to do. But it was so dangerous. He might even have to risk a few lives to achieve it. But there were so many lives at stake: the Order, the villagers, and even his own dad! He vaguely recalled Harry's warning about his dad. Even though, his conversation with Harry felt like a dream – a nightmare. Had his dad really been captured? Had the Death Eaters hurt him? Had Harry hurt him? Or Harry lied about it? With all these questions racing in his head, he could almost hear Hermione's emphatic tone.

'Think!' demanded the voice.

He groaned. Harry and Hermione had always been the best at getting out of difficult situation. He had never been good at it. But what _was_ his strength? What was something that he had always been better at . . . Far more than the other two?

That's it!

Chess.

Strategy. Thinking ahead. Planning. Manipulating the board, so to speak. Figuring out the positions of the chess pieces.

All right. Let's do this.

Time to have a date with destiny.

There was only one way to fix this. No, scratch that. Well . . . two, really. First, he needed access to a wand. Second, he needed Harry's help above all else. He had to bank on the fact that Harry was no longer under the influence of Voldemort. A large part of Ron, however, refused to get help from Neville's murderer. But Dumbledore's words resounded in his head above all other doubts. It was true . . . they were not Harry's victims.

They were Voldemort's.

No, he needed Harry's help. The _real_ Harry.

It was either they all died together, or he would die trying to save them. He needed the Order to be here. To help the villagers. But to do that, he needed inside access through the Death Eaters. He needed his wand. He needed to save his dad. Hell, he even needed to save Harry. Harry needed healing. He needed to get away from Voldemort's influence. He deserved a second chance . . . Right?

"Oi!" Ron barked loudly. "I know you're out there, you filthy rats! I've got something to say."

It was strange. He found that thinking ahead actually alleviated the fear. Well . . . a bit. But everything was resting on the player's move. On the player's fastidious eye movements, critical thinking skills, judgments, and prior experience. Every game was a different result. A different plan. A different strategy. He just needed to predict the outcomes _per se._ And like every chess player, it was best to start with the pawns first. He knew what he needed to do.

He needed to surround their king. But to do that, he needed to move up in rank: first the pawns, then the knight, then the king.

Of course.

He looked at the sound of footsteps. Through the dim light of the floating candles, he watched as two hooded figures approached, their thin frames curtained by their dark cloaks. As they approached, however, they slowly lowered their hood. Ron nearly blanched at the sight. They were familiar to him. How many times had he sent them to Askaban only for them to break out every single time? Regardless, he just hoped that they wouldn't cause too much trouble. But then, a flicker of doubt appeared at the back of his mind. They looked mildly annoyed for the commotion that he was causing. But then, an image of his family flashed into his mind. He didn't need to doubt himself . . .

He was in control of the board this time.

"Well . . .?" said the shortest Death Eater – Avery, if Ron wasn't mistaken. He regarded Ron with an indifferent raised brow. "Spit it out, Weasley."

"If this is some idea of a joke . . ." threatened the other Death Eater, a fist raised. Ron recognized the man as Rodolphus Lestrange.

"It's not, you skiving, thieving button-burster," said Ron, his temper flaring. "Listen here. I've got a few words with your Master, hear?"

But the two Death Eaters froze, a hint of suspicion and wariness on their faces. They glanced at each other with raised eyebrows. It was almost as if they needed confirmation on what they were hearing was right.

Then, Avery smirked.

"Change of heart, Weasley?"

"Well, you see . . ." said Ron, feigning a thoughtful expression. "Chucking Death Eaters in Askaban didn't seem to be the best way to spend a man's pastime, did it?"

Avery's stilled; he looked mildly annoyed. "I suppose not," he bit out with a pointed glare.

Lestrange, however, shot him a distrustful look. "You would leave your family and come along with us?"

Ron froze. He hoped that the Death Eaters wouldn't notice his hesitation. But the idea of dishonoring his family hurt him more than ever. But he had to do it. To save them. Wasn't it all about intentions, anyway?

Ron gritted his teeth. "They're blood-traitors," Ron bit out, looking at Lestrange dead in the eyes. "Tell your Master I want nothing to do with them."

But Lestrange narrowed his eyes. It was clear that he still wasn't convinced.

"This hasn't got something to do with Potter, has it?"

"You were here, you butter-fingered dunderhead," snapped Ron, fighting the ripple of annoyance at Lestrange's suspicion. "You heard everything."

Lestrange sneered.

"Unfortunately, Weasley –"

"With the Chosen One gone," Ron cut him off quickly, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "what chance does the rest of us have?"

They were pawns to him. And he was the player – the competitor. He could do this. He just needed to concentrate. He just needed to stay calm. To not panic. To play it cool – the way that Harry did it. What was to be was to be. The result didn't matter. Only the path to the result mattered. Whatever happens has to happen. At least he had tried.

Avery smirked. "Well, well, well," he said, a smug look on the face that, in Ron's opinion, should be illegal. "It seems that Potter has proven to be a most effective ally over the years. Convincing one of the most prominent blood-traitor families . . . Now that's talent."

Ron shot him a serious look.

"Take me to him."

But Lestrange leaned forward. "Any hint of treason, Weasley," he warned, almost nose-to-nose with Ron. "any at all . . ."

"My head," muttered Ron, disgruntled. "I know."

But suddenly Avery interjected. "Would you consent to Vertiserium?" he asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Ron felt his heart racing.

"Have you got any to spare?" he asked suspiciously, trying to stall long enough. But Lestrange threw an irritated look at Avery. It was clear that he wasn't pleased with the question.

"Well," said Avery dully, unfazed by Lestrange's irritation. "Not exactly. Just seemed like a good threat."

But suddenly inspiration dawned Ron.

"Right," scoffed Ron. "And you mock the Aurors for coming up unprepared."

"Which Aurors?" smirked Lestrange. "Ours or yours?"

Ron tried to repress the feeling of unease by raising a brow. He tried to look unfazed by the comment.

"There's a difference?"

Lestrange waved a hand. "That is beside the matter," he said sternly. "What is it you want from the Dark Lord, Weasley?"

"To punch his nose out."

The two Death Eaters jolted in surprise.

"Wha – ?"

"Oh, hang on," continued Ron, feigning a thoughtful look. He was unfazed by their growing irritation. "He hasn't got one, has he?"

"Fool!" shouted Avery, drawing his wand.

"– I'll ring that bastard's neck!" threatened Ron loudly, wrestling wildly against the chains. But his plans finally worked.

They had enough.

" _Crucio_!"

Ron instantly regretted his decision. He had wanted an excuse to draw the attention of anyone but Voldemort by making up an excuse to shout really loudly. But as he felt the prick of a million needles and his muscles contracting tightly, he elicited a long, drawn out scream that almost pierced his eardrum. He didn't even notice the door bursting open and a long, tall shadow drape across the torn rug on the floor. He just continued to scream and scream. But finally, the curse was lifted. He was left panting like a thirsty mutt, trying to get his brain to function again.

But then, a familiar voice filled his ears. And Ron had never felt more grateful to hear it.

"What's going on here?" demanded a voice. Groggily, Ron looked up and caught sight of a thin, dark-clothed figure.

It was Harry.

He looked annoyed by the ruckus. He stood in the center of the room, his wand drawn, glaring at the Death Eaters. In the dim light, his haggard appearance stood out more than ever. Ron had never noticed how utterly pale and weary Harry looked until now. It was probably born from sleepless night and from being locked up in a prison for nearly ten years. He almost looked like his godfather with his wan countenance and haunted eyes. But despite his clear exhaustion, his green eyes were sharp and alert. His glasses reflected the flames of the candles.

It was strange . . .

A murderer never did look a murderer.

"Potter!"

Harry glowered. Then, his gaze shifted to Ron. He gave him a long, hard stare. He looked almost suspicious. Ron wanted to tell him that he needed his help. That he needed a wand. That he needed to save the Order. He wished that Harry was a Legilimens, but Harry had always been rubbish at anything that dealt with the mind. But Ron couldn't speak. He couldn't do it in front of the Death Eaters. He met Harry's gaze and gave a short, subtle nod towards the Death Eaters. But Ron couldn't tell if he had understood.

Harry turned to the Death Eaters. "The Dark Lord's sent for you both," said Harry stiffly, barely looking at them.

"Now?" asked Avery sharply.

But Ron startled when Harry suddenly pointed his wand in their direction. It was clear that he was impatient with them.

"Get moving," demanded Harry.

Annoyed, they glared at him and straightened their robes stiffly before they began walking to the door.

"Let us depart, Avery," said Lestrange stiffly. "The Dark Lord awaits."

But as they walked to the door, something strange happened. All Ron knew was that there was a burst of light and they slumped down to the ground with a loud _thump_. Ron blinked. Harry was standing over them, his wand aloft in front of him. He stepped past them to lock the door before he turned to Ron.

"Harry?"

Harry shot him a furtive glance before he drew his wand again.

" _Muffilato_ ," he muttered. He then stepped past the bodies to stand in front of Ron. "What are you doing?"

Ron raised a brow.

"Speak for yourself," he retorted, looking at the still bodies of the Death Eaters. They were still breathing . . . unlike Neville.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "You're trying to save the Order, aren't you?"

"Isn't that obvious?" replied Ron, trying to suppress the feeling of unease in his stomach.

Somehow, it was hard to look at Harry. The features that once reminded him of his long, lost friend seemed somehow unfamiliar. As if a mask had been placed over his face. He couldn't look at Harry without thinking of the face that had just mercilessly killed Neville. Gritting his teeth, he averted his eyes. But Harry seemed to notice where his gaze had drifted.

"We've got about half an hour until midnight," he said, almost cautiously. But Ron snapped his head back to him with a jolt.

"You're going to help me?"

"Isn't that obvious?"

Ron narrowed his eyes. "But I thought nothing's worth saving," he said dryly, trying to prod something out of him.

Harry looked taken-aback.

"Weasley –"

"It's Ron to you, thanks."

Harry looked irritated. But instead of retorting, he sighed and shook his head.

"We haven't got time for this."

Ron gritted his teeth. Harry still hadn't denied it, and there wasn't a hint of possession in his eyes or his tone. No. It was himself. He, himself, really believed that. That life was nothing. It was meaningless. But if life was meaningless, why did he try so hard to save people? Surely he recognized those actions? The prisoners, the Order, the villagers. All those lives that he strove to save . . . were all meaningless? Then, why bother? Then Ron looked at him. With so many sleepless nights and little to no comforting thoughts, well, how could he _not_ think negatively?

Ron glared at the torn rug on the floor. "We never gave up on you," he muttered, his teeth clenched. "Even, you know . . . back in the Ministry."

Harry averted his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

"You shouldn't be," said Ron bitterly. "It's Voldemort that should be sorry. I don't know how he managed to get to you, Harry. But we'll beat him in the end, won't we?"

Harry looked mildly startled by Ron's determined look. But after a long moment, he gave a cautious nod.

"Right."

Ron stiffened when Harry suddenly pointed his wand at him. He couldn't help but flinch when Harry used his wand. He couldn't even deny that a part of him actually feared him. Feared that part that was almost as ruthless as Voldemort. But then he exhaled in relief when the thick shackles around his wrists burst open. He felt a floating sensation from Harry's Levitating Charm before he was carefully lowered to the ground. But he hardly had time to be grateful.

 _Bugger_.

He _ached_. He ached all _over_. His limbs felt stiff and _ancient_. He was only twenty-six for bloody's sake, he thought grimly. He didn't need an early preview on how it felt like to be old. Groaning, he rotated both his shoulders and winced when his joints give out a loud _snap_. His head was still throbbing, though the blood down his cheek was thick and dry. With a grimace, he looked at his throbbing, broken wrist. There were fragments of broken bones, and he knew that it was useless.

He wondered how he was saving anyone in this state.

As if reading his thoughts, Harry said hurriedly. "Take a Thestral and get out of here."

"No!" cried Ron indignantly. "I'm not running off like a bloody coward."

"I never said you were."

Ron shook his head. Determined to prove Harry wrong, he placed his good palm on the floor and heaved himself. Blinking away dark patches from his eyes, he wobbled on his feet, waving away Harry's attempt to help him.

"I know I'm not in any state to fight," said Ron through gritted teeth, breathing heavily. "But I've got to try."

But Harry didn't look surprised, nor did he make any attempts to stop him. It was almost as if he had been expecting this.

"You're going in there?"

"You said my dad sent you here?" asked Ron, his eyes narrowed. He turned to lean back against the wall, pointedly avoiding to look at Neville's still body.

"He's with Voldemort," Harry said quickly. "He was caught the night Voldemort broke into the Ministry."

But Ron suddenly felt like he had been drenched in ice. His heart started racing. His lips felt dry.

His _dad_? His dad was in trouble? Since when? _How_? He had never left the house for anything but the Ministry. And with the recent 'bladder problem' that he had developed, he was rarely outside except in the most secured places. Was Harry perhaps lying to him?

"What?" breathed Ron, horrified.

"That man you've been living with," said Harry hastily. "He's an imposter."

"Imposter?"

A dim feeling in the back of Ron's mind suspected Harry that was lying. That he couldn't possibly be telling the truth. Hadn't he seen his dad just moments ago before he had left the Ministry? And Harry had accompanied him, disguised as Barty. Did he somehow get a hold of him? Could he really trust the person who had just killed Neville? Who was the reason why Voldemort was here in the first place? But then, he looked at Harry's ashen face. He thought, what could Harry possibly gain from lying to him? He had released him from his chains, hadn't he? He had confronted Ron in order to save the Order?

But the thought that they had been living with an imposter disgusted him beyond measure. While his dad was probably lying in a prison somewhere, possibly being tortured by Death Eaters or even Voldemort, that bloody _bastard_ had laid on his bed, drank from his mug, and even lounged along with his children and grandchildren.

Then, it dawned him . . .

Hadn't Mad Eye suspected him? And Ron had even caught Dumbledore throwing him wary glances at times. That 'bladder problem' was never really a problem at all. It was a trick all along! It was a bloody tri . . .

"That bloody _bastard_ ," spat Ron, his eyes gleaming from under his bloody fringe. "He's been – what? In our house for . . . two weeks? With . . ." he swallowed. "Mum . . ." he clenched his teeth at the thought of his mother being in the same bed as an imposter. He could've very well killed her. "That _bastard_."

But Harry broke his trance. "He's been using Polyjuice Potion to spy on the Order."

Ron snapped his head up.

"You haven't got anything to do with this, have you?"

"No," he said, almost defensively. He looked miffed by the accusation. "Of course not."

He knew that he shouldn't be blaming Harry. Not after he had helped him. But he wanted to punch at something so badly. He wanted to hurt someone – anyone that was in front of him. And Harry just happened to be in the way.

Ron swallowed, his fists clenched at his side. "Where's my dad, Harry?" he inquired, almost pleading. "What happened to him? Is he all right?"

Ron's heart sank when Harry's eyes darkened. He looked hesitant. Ron knew that look. He recognized it. He didn't even need confirmation to tell him that his dad was anything _but_ all right. Something had happened to him.

Something _bad_. And the hatred that Ron felt to the imposter intensified ten folds.

"Harry?"

"Well," began Harry tentatively, as if treading on needles. "If anything . . . you should know that he's still alive."

Ron's breath hitched. That didn't sound _any_ better.

"That's reassuring," he swallowed, almost absently. But suddenly, Harry straightened and met his eyes with a hard stare.

"Will it help to know?"

Ron hesitated. He _wanted_ to know. But as his gaze drifted along the room and outside the window, he looked at the even brighter looking moon. He realised that they were losing time by the seconds now. They needed to hurry and help the Order. They had no time to think about anything else.

No. He needed to concentrate. The best players chess players were the ones that kept their eyes fixed on the board.

"I suppose not," said Ron finally, after a long pause. But Harry was right. He needed to stay cool. He didn't need a distraction. "Not now, anyway. We've got to save the villagers."

"And the Order?" inquired Harry. "Isn't there an way to contact them from here?"

"An owl?"

"Not likely."

Ron grimaced. Most living creatures were likely dead or asleep here. But then his gaze strayed to Neville's body. As if treading on needles, he moved towards it, his eyes stinging with tears. But he forced them away. Neville's body was littered with broken bones and large, blotchy bruises. He was almost unrecognizable. Ron couldn't do it. He looked away again, his breathing heavier than usual. Instead, he wandlessly summoned the coin and turned away from Neville's lifeless blue eyes.

"Can the charm be removed?" asked Ron hoarsely. He subtly wiped his face against his sleeve, trying to compose himself.

Harry shook his head. "I don't think so," he said, stepping beside Ron. "Knowing the Death Eaters, it's most likely irreversible."

Ron growled in frustration and tossed it aside.

"There must be another way," he said furiously, kicking at a small wooden table near the wall. He gave a loud yelp at the violent contact. But as if broken toes were a sign from heaven, an idea suddenly struck him like lightening. "Hang on. There is!"

Harry frowned from his position at the wall.

"What?"

"Patronus Charms," said Ron hastily, patting his robes for his wand. But then, he realized with a sudden dread in his heart that it was missing.

'Of course it is, you dolt,' grumbled his inner Hermione. 'Look where you are. You're the enemy, remember?'

Oh, right. He was still held captive by the Death Eaters. And that meant that they had probably taken his wand.

 _Shit_.

Hermione had become a bad influence on him.

"But . . ." finished Ron absently, his voice trailing off. "I've lost my wand – "

But as if hearing his thoughts, the object in question suddenly crossed his vision. Ron looked up and saw that Harry standing with his own wand outstretched, the hinge pointing towards Ron.

Feeling a rush of gratitude, Ron muttered. "Thanks."

But as he searched his mind for a happy memory, he realised that that the effort actually proved difficult. Especially with Neville's lifeless body so close to him. Especially with the stark reminder of the crimes that Harry – his once brother in all but blood had committed. He couldn't believe that Harry had such cruelty in him. He was usually polite, pleasant, and humble to be around. But if he didn't recognise Harry's other side, his _good_ and noble side, didn't that mean that he had let Voldemort win? Wasn't that Dumbledore had warned them? That Voldemort wanted to isolate Harry from them? From his friends. From his family. From _humanity_. To kill Harry's spirit. To kill Harry's _true_ self.

Determined, Ron shut his eyes. He tried to imagine all those times that he had lounged beside Harry and Hermione by the lake. Their studying together. Their adventures. Their jokes. And even recklessness. And the Terrier emerged from his wand, it trotted a full circle around Ron before it hopped out the window.

As soon as he was finished, he stilled. Harry's wand clenched in his hand. He couldn't ignore his conversation with Harry just hours ago. His looks, his tone, his _words_ all echoed in his mind.

"How many lives are at stake here?" said Ron, his voice distant. "The villagers, the Order, my dad . . ." he directed his eyes to Harry. "And even _you_. I can't imagine what would happen if . . ."

But his voice trailed off. But a voice in his head was deafening. How can nothing be worth it anymore? Surely a life was worth everything, even if it was just one's own. Even without a family. Even without friends. One's own was enough.

Ron narrowed his eyes at Harry.

"You don't see it, do you?"

Harry startled.

"See what?"

Rom gritted his teeth. He had to prove Harry wrong. He had to prove to Harry that there was a part of himself that didn't believe that.

"You'd let them all die?"

Harry looked taken-aback. "Are you – ?" he stumbled back, his eyebrows creased in bewilderment. "What are you –?"

"Answer the question!" snapped Ron.

The fact that Harry was unnerved by the question confirmed everything that Ron had doubted during Harry's possession. It wasn't that Harry believed it to be true – that life was meaningless. It was just that he was unaware that he was proving himself wrong. Like Ron had once been. During his Hogwarts years, he had blindly followed Harry without real considering _why_ he was doing it. _Why_ , for instance, they had saved Hermione from the troll. Or why they had saved Ginny from the chamber. It was mostly instinct that had kept them going. Ron knew it . . .

Because _he_ had once done it.

With a hint of annoyance, Harry pursed his lips.

"Of course not."

"Why not?"

Harry paused. His gaze drifted along the room, as if trying to find an answer beneath the disheveled setting.

"I-I don't know."

Ron clenched his teeth.

"You know why I became an Auror, Harry?" he replied stubbornly, glaring at a torn portrait on the wall. "I wanted to prove my worth. I wanted to prove I didn't need help from others. I thought I could manage my own, you know. I didn't want anyone to think I needed anyone else. I didn't want to fail myself. And I did it. I finally had something going for me. I had _myself_ , and that's all that mattered."

Harry stood silently, his eyebrows furrowed, struggling to understand what Ron had meant. Shaking his head in frustration, Ron wobbled to his feet. He slowly walked up to Harry, his wrist clutched in his other hand.

"You don't have to dig hard to find meaning, Harry," said Ron in a solemn tone. Without hesitance, he took his bloodied good hand and placed it on Harry's shoulders.

But Harry didn't answer. Nor did he meet his eyes. His eyes were hardened, and Ron knew that it was going to take months – years, in fact – to repair the damage. If even there _was_ repairing.

Ron sighed.

But as soon as he had turned around to walk back to the wall, Harry's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Listen," said Harry, his jaw clenched. "I'm sorry about Neville –"

"Don't," interjected Ron, a pained look on his face. "I just . . . I can't think about that right now."

"I know," he replied in a solemn tone. "But in case anything happens . . ."

"It's like Dumbledore said, isn't it?" replied Ron, rubbing at his bruised wrists. "They're Voldemort victims."

Harry's expression became guarded, and he looked away. Even in the dim light, Ron could see how far Harry had been affected by Voldemort's possession. He probably blamed himself every moment, every second for all that he had done. He would continue as long as he lived. The same way that Ron had felt when he had figured out that Harry had disappeared ten years ago. But wasn't ten years in imprisonment punishment in itself? And who knew what Voldemort did to him? He probably tortured him, or even given him the worst treatment knowing that Harry was the one destined to kill him.

Ron wondered who was more hurt, the families of the victims or the suspect himself?

"I've got to get in there," Ron declared finally, breaking the tense silence. Harry shot him a wary glance.

"You're sure about this?"

"It's like chess, isn't it?" said Ron, ignoring the puzzled look on Harry's face. "Surround their king, and it's checkmate."

Harry gave a brief nod. He drew his wand from under his cloak and walked to the fallen Death Eaters, his wand hovering above them.

"Ready?" inquired Harry, a brow raised at Ron. But Ron felt a nauseous susurrus in his insides.

"No."

"You'll be fine," said Harry, almost absently.

Ron nodded. He watched as Harry knelt down, pointed his wand at both the Death Eaters, and muttered a spell before rising to his feet. The first one to rise was Lestrange. He rubbed at his head groggily before he whipped around to stare at Harry and Ron.

"What the bloody –?" he sputtered.

"Whazzgoinon?" grumbled Avery, likewise rubbing his head.

But suddenly, their eyes went glassy for a moment. Ron looked back and saw Harry pointing his wand at both of them again. It was clear that he was erasing their memories. Finally, when satisfied, he tucked his wand in his pocket, stepped back, and glared at them.

"Tell the Dark Lord that he'll expecting Ron Weasley soon," said Harry, a bite in his tone.

But it seems that the order was enough for the two. Without a word, they nodded, though they still looked slightly irritated, and whisked away. But not without a backwards glare at Harry.

"You're a right git, you know that?" swallowed Ron after the Death Eaters had left. If he was honest with himself . . . Harry did scare him sometimes.

But then, the git in question turned to him with an expected look.

"Good luck."

"Same."

Harry nodded. He turned on his heels and exited the room, closing the door behind him. Ron watched his retreating back. He felt nauseous. He felt sick. The gravity of the situation finally hit him. There were so many lives at stake today. Even himself. One wrong move, and it was game over. But no. Harry was right. He _would_ be fine. He just had to learn to trust himself. To trust his judgements. To play the game with Destiny. To emerge victorious. And like that . . . he heard it. It was too good to be true. On either side of the chess board, the thunderous chants of the audience was cheering him on . . .

Weasley is our king.

Right. It was black versus white. Ron versus Destiny. But he couldn't be beaten. Not if he manipulated the board right. Not if he knew his opponent well enough. Not if he could see his opponent's move before it was made.

Harry was the noble warrior. Hermione was the information hoarder. But chess was _his_ strength – _his_ forte.

He could do it.

He was the _knight_.

He closed his eyes and sank against the wall. His head was still throbbing. His torso and right cheek smeared with dried blood. But then he thought of his family – of Hermione, of Rosè, little Hugo, and his parents, and his brothers.

He couldn't risk it.

"I'll come back for you, Neville," he muttered under his breath. He promised that he would. He wouldn't let Neville die here alone.

Then, he heard the door slam open. But he didn't open his eyes. He felt strong arms grab him roughly under the armpits. He felt himself floating. Be taken away. To their king, perhaps. And one word rang in his ear like wedding bells.

Checkmate.

. . . . . . . . .

With the conversation with Weasley ringing through his head, Harry treaded down the hall towards a large room that looked almost like a guest room. He lingered near the doorway and looked in. Inside, he found various dark-clothed figures, almost a dozen of them. Some standing near the walls. Some sitting on the couches. Some even were toying with a seemingly dead body, ripping apart limbs and flesh for fun. Harry felt repulsed at the sight. He couldn't tell if the man was dead or asleep. But the sharp sting in his head interrupted his thoughts.

Disgusted, he shifted his attention to the tall, dark-clothed figure in the center. Voldemort stood, his head bowed, his hood shadowed his face, his bony fingers twirling his wand silently.

Harry stepped in, his robes fluttering near his feet.

Voldemort lifted his head. "Well done, Harry," he smirked, his red eyes gleaming. "I dare say, I have acquired more benefit than harm by keeping you alive . . ."

"Which part," said Harry darkly. "my life or yours?"

Voldemort waved a hand. "Is there a difference?"

Harry bristled. He clenched his fists, struggling to keep his temper at bay. The Death Eaters around them were staring at both of them with wary glances.

"I am nothing like you," said Harry loudly, his eyes narrowed into slits.

Voldemort's lip curled. "Still stubborn, I see . . ." he said lazily. He promptly turned to the left of the room and stood, looking outside the window. "When will you learn, Harry?"

"I've had enough of your tricks, Riddle."

But Voldemort ignored him. "Time is against you, Harry," he said icily. "There shall come a time when the last light of moon will dissipate. When the shadows shall trounce the light. And only then shall you realise just how relentless – just how _similar_ we can be."

Harry clenched his fists. He met him dead in the eyes.

"I'll hold you to that."

Voldemort smirked. He turned from the window and moved to stand before Harry. There was commotion at the door, but neither of them turned nor did they avert their eyes.

" _Until the end_ . . ." hissed Voldemort in Parseltongue.

Harry stiffened. He suddenly felt like he had been drenched in ice. With a vague sense of reality, he watched as Voldemort took a step back. He was still smirking. It was almost as if he knew that he had won the argument. But Harry hardly registered Weasley being dragged roughly into the center in front of Voldemort. His scar pricked like thorns on his head. What was it that Voldemort had meant by that statement? Was there really an end to Harry? If Voldemort refused to kill him, did that mean that he was going to become Voldemort's permanent servant? Was he really going to let Voldemort have his way with him? After all the bodies already . . .

Then irresistibly, the words of the ghostly man that he had met in the shop near Grimmauld's Place echoed in his mind.

' _Mark my words, Potter_ ,' he had warned Harry. ' _Seek Dumbledore's guidance before it is too late_.'

But was it too late? Was Harry's fate sealed with Voldemort?

At the sound of rustling, Harry abruptly snapped out of his thoughts. _Damn him_ , he thought furiously. Voldemort had messed with him again. But he had to focus. He didn't need a distraction. Voldemort moved to stand in front of Ron. Harry stood behind him, his hood drawn, his head bowed. He didn't want Ron to glance at him. Nor even acknowledge him.

Voldemort began.

"You are a member of the Order, Ron Weasley?"

"Former."

"Empty your pockets," commanded Voldemort. "Remove the coin from your possession."

Ron complied without a word. Harry was quite impressed by his performance. He shot Voldemort a furtive glance but wisely decided to stay silent.

"You wish to become a Death Eater?" inquired Voldemort. His tone didn't reveal his mood. But Harry knew, without confirmation, that he was suspicious.

"Yes."

"State your reason."

"Well, it's like Harry said, isn't it?" said Ron in a matter-of-fact tone, but he didn't glance at Harry. "What's left in the world besides blood and smoke?"

"You are willing to denounce your old ways?"

"Yes."

"Even if, perhaps," began Voldemort almost mockingly. "Your entire family would be killed a quarter of an hour before midnight."

Ron paused. Harry quickly glanced at Voldemort. He knew that the latter had caught his the slip, but he didn't intervene. It was clear that Voldemort was testing him.

"Yes."

But Harry suddenly found himself under the incendiary red gaze of Voldemort, and he hurried to collect himself. He met the man's gaze without a single hint of hesitance. He knew that Voldemort was trying to dig through his mind. He suspected Harry. But Harry didn't flinch nor did he avert his eyes. He let Voldemort sift through. Their eyes remained locked for a long moment. The tension of the room grew thick.

But he had nothing to hide.

" _You kept your word_ ," hissed Voldemort in Parseltongue. His eyes burned into Harry's, as if trying to sear into his soul. Harry briefly recalled the conversation they had, about not fraternizing with Weasley.

Harry boldly met his eyes.

" _I always do_."

Voldemort's lip curled. " _With your wavering loyalties_ . . ." he replied lazily, turning to direct his gaze onto Ron. " _Is it therefore the less wrong to doubt ._ . .?"

Harry pursed his lips. He refrained himself from retorting. He could feel his anger on the surface – bubbling, boiling, unfurling. Like the roar of the waves as they crashed in the ocean. But as always in Voldemort's presence, he bit his tongue and stayed silent.

"Very well, Ron Weasley," proclaimed Voldemort, his red eyes gleaming. "You were taught how to duel, yes?"

"Yes."

Voldemort stared at him for a long moment, his lips curled in faint amusement. The other Death Eaters likewise cackled. Harry felt almost like he had missed an inside joke. But as Voldemort elaborated, he suddenly felt a sting of anger at the implication.

"But of course, as an Auror . . ." he said lazily. "How foolish of me to forget. You will find, Ron Weasley, that it was woefully unnecessary to convert to my side. You were always in my servitude, you see, what with the turbulent state of the Ministry these days," Voldemort smirked. "Ingenious, is it not?"

Behind Voldemort, Harry was boiling with fury. So it _was_ true? Voldemort had the entire Ministry on his side. That's why he appeared that night in the Ministry. That's why he knew that Harry would break into the Ministry to find Ron. That's why . . . Harry swallowed. That's why . . . his victims . . . almost all of them worked for the Ministry. They set him up. They set him up to kill. They made sure that he wouldn't caught by the Aurors. They were the reason why he was caught in the first place. The reason why his aunt and uncle were dead. They sold him out.

 _Traitors_.

"Prepare the others," hissed Voldemort. He turned to direct his gaze at the rest of the Death Eaters. "At this height, the world will see what desolation awaits the ones that dare to challenge Lord Voldemort."

At the command, the Death Eaters immediately stepped out, leaving Voldemort inside of the room. Harry shot a quick look at Ron. The house elves were fussing over his wounds. With a wary glance at Voldemort, Harry turned on his heels and accompanied the Death Eaters out of the house. But as soon as he stepped out, he grimaced against the strong, foul smell of the village. He descended the three steps down and glanced around for any nearby Death Eaters. When he was sure that they had their backs to him, he turned into a small, dark corner near the house and stood there waiting behind a pillar underneath the shadows.

He lurked under a pillar, his head bowed under his hood, looking around for nearby Death Eaters. He felt a shiver run up his spine at the billowing cold winds, his breath swirling out into the mist. And finally, he heard it. The thud of footsteps on hollow wood. He adjusted himself and peeked out. Sure enough, it was Weasley. Quickly, Harry's hand shot up to fist into Ron's robes. Ignoring the latter's cries of protest, he dragged him into an isolated corner between two houses before he released him. He lowered his hood and glared at him, the firelight of the lanterns reflecting off of his glasses.

Harry hissed. "What are you doing?"

Rom flinched.

"What do you mean?" demanded Ron, bewildered.

"You're trying to save the Order, aren't you?"

Ron looked, if possible, even more gobsmacked. He opened his mouth, then closed it, looking almost like a fish as he did.

"I already told you that," said Ron slowly.

" _What_?"

"You asked me," said Ron, almost suspiciously. "Before the Death Eaters barged in. You don't remember?"

Harry stared. He couldn't help the feeling of unease in his stomach. His lips suddenly felt dry, and he stepped back in astonishment.

"What?" he breathed. He almost opened his mouth to inquire but shut it instantly. He realised why he was confused, but he didn't tell Ron. "Wait, no," he shook his head, straining to collect his wits. "Nevermind," he turned to Ron. "Let's just get out of here."

But Ron didn't move. He narrowed his eyes, looking quite suspicious. "We are saving the villagers, aren't we?"

"Of course," replied Harry absently. He turned to stare at the rotten cabbage garden behind the house, his face paler than before.

But Ron stepped up to him, looking quite concerned.

"You all right, Harry?"

"I'm fine," replied Harry, snapping out of his daze. "Let's go."

Together, they treaded down the trail. The moon glaring at them from above. Their hoods were drawn, their heads bowed, their wands aloft under their dark cloaks. The rotten stench of the village almost choked them. But everything seemed deathly still, almost like they were attending a funeral or something. But before they turned the corner to travel left, they stopped near a pillar and leaned behind it, trying not to look suspicious. They ducked near the darkest corners, their eyes peeking out. They scanned the cobblestone trail, trying to deduce how many Death Eaters were around the area.

"What's the plan?" Ron whispered from the corner of his lips, his eyes fixed on the moving shadows of the Death Eaters ahead.

Harry stared.

"What plan?"

"What are we going to do?" hissed Ron, sounding strangely unsettled.

Harry shot him a strange side glance. "Improvise," he whispered back, hastening down the trail without a backwards glance. "Come on."

As Harry rushed down the path, he heard Ron groan and mutter behind him. "Where's Hermione when you need her?"

Together, they continued, glancing to and fro, their eyes swinging like pendulums, their gazes sharp as a hawk, looking for nearby Death Eaters. But Harry's eyes suddenly widened. Without thinking, he shoved Ron into a dark corner and carefully peeked out of the corner. He met Ron's eyes and jerked a thumb down the trail. Far ahead, there was a large shop – no, a pub – slightly illuminated. It seemed like the Death Eaters were standing there, toying with the sleeping bodies, and drinking merrily on the job. Harry grimaced at the sight.

"How many are there?" whispered Ron.

Harry tried to squint through the darkness, but the effort was futile. He could hardly see anything. All that had everything to do with thick mist and nothing to do with his weak eyesight.

"Dunno."

"How are we going to stop them?" Ron hissed. "There's no time."

Harry stared. His eyes skittered across the village, deep in thought. How exactly were they going to light up the whole village? Wouldn't it be with a spell? And wouldn't the caster have to be near the house to light it up. But there weren't enough Death Eaters or Aurors around to light up almost a hundred houses. That meant that they have to be close. That meant that they didn't need to be far from here because . . .

"These are wooden houses," said Harry, his eyes fixed on the houses.

"So?"

"They don't need to spread out to start a fire," he explained, speaking out of the corner of his lips. "They only need to light a few."

"You reckon they're close?"

"Probably around here somewhere."

Straight ahead, the Death Eaters slammed their glasses on the floor beside the bodies, stepped on them, and exited the pub. Harry and Ron watched them depart, slowly inching out of their hiding area.

"Right," said Ron firmly, his wand drawn. "Quick and stealthy does it, then."

"Come on."

On steady feet, they tagged the Death Eaters. There were about four of them. But they were wasted from all the whiskey that they had consumed. With their heads bowed, Harry and Ron accompanied them until the four split up into twos. One pair went left while the other went right. Harry gave Ron a subtle nudge in the left direction. Ron took the hint and followed. Harry, on the other hand, traveled right. Hastening his pace, he neared close behind the Death Eaters. When he was close enough, he reached up to muffle the man's mouth, jabbed his wand in the man's back, and felt the man go limp in his arms. Carefully, he lowered the man to the floor. But the other Death Eater never noticed the absence of his companion. In fact, he only continued down the path, wobbling helplessly on his feet.

Standing up, a brow raised, Harry pointed his wand and sent him crashing to the floor. At the sound of footsteps, however, Harry quickly turned to direct his wand at the source. But the person simply startled and held up his hands.

"Oi," said Ron, annoyed. "It's me. It's Ron, you dolt."

Harry lowered his wand. "Sorry."

"You took them out, then?" said Ron, breathing heavily.

He moved to stand over the Death Eater near Harry. But Harry didn't answer. So engrossed in his thoughts, he inquired. "How are you going to get to the Order?"

Ron stood up from kneeled position.

"What do you mean?" said Ron, frowning. "I already told them."

Harry flinched in surprise.

"What?"

Ron stepped in front of him, his eyes narrowed. "You saw me, didn't you? You were there in the room with me - with the rest of the Death Eaters."

Harry stepped back.

"Yeah," said Harry, his voice distant. He couldn't help but feel slightly nauseous and unsettled. "I was."

"You didn't see the Patronus?" inquired Ron, his frown deepening.

"What Patronus?"

Ron leaned forward and waved a hand in front of his face, looking quite mind-boggled. "Did Voldemort mess with your head again, mate?"

Harry scowled. "I didn't see anything, Weasley."

"You're taking the mickey out of me, aren't you?"

"I'm _not_."

"What are you on about?" said Ron indignantly. "You were there in the room with me. You watched me cast the spell, didn't you?"

"I _didn't_ ," insisted Harry, annoyed. But then a thought crossed him. Hadn't this happened to him before? His eyes wide behind his glasses, he breathed. "I must have forgotten it."

Ron looked suspicious. He didn't look convinced, much to Harry's irritation.

"What's the shape of my Patronus?"

Harry glared.

" _What_ Patronus?" he insisted, frustrated.

"You've lost your marbles," cried Ron, his arms flailing out. "It's a bloody Ter –" he paused, his blue eyes wide. "You erased your memories?" he breathed, horrified.

Harry shot him a wary look.

"Parts of it."

He was getting a bit uncomfortable about the topic. He turned to stare out into the black mist ahead, trying hard to ignore Ron's stunned stare. Instead, he squinted into the distance, his eyes scanning for any motion, his ears alert for any sound or footsteps. Unnerved by the stare, his hand tightened around his wand. But try as he may to ignore Ron, the other man seemed quite insistent.

"Why?" breathed Ron in disbelief.

But Harry waved him off, his eyes fixed ahead, his tone impatient. "It must've been something important."

"And you thought up the brilliant plan to erase it?"

Harry whipped around. "Don't act like I've committed a crime, Weasley," he said loudly, his face drawn in a scowl. "Voldemort can read my thoughts. He'll know what you're planning."

"All right, all right," grumbled Ron, holding his hands on the air. "I was only curious. Just quit biting my head off, will you?"

"Who's biting?"

Harry missed Ron's lips twitching into a grin.

Before Ron could respond, a slight commotion was heard from the house next to them. They jolted and hurried to draw their wands. Glancing at each other, they slowly moved towards the doorway. There was a faint sound of shattering glass from inside. Harry moved quickly to open the door, knowing that the sound would muffle their entrance. Tentatively, they entered, the floorboards under their feet creaking slightly. Then, Harry grimaced when he felt the crack of glass beneath his feet. He looked down and found a pool of broken glass on the floor, with the splash of blood mingling along with it. He looked up and found one of the villagers, a man, to be exact, banging his head hard on a mirror on the hall. Before the man registered his guest, Harry quickly stunned him for good measure.

"Blimey," breathed Ron.

"I know," replied Harry, grimacing.

But before Harry could move to check the house, Ron reached out to grasp Harry's shoulder. "Wait, then . . ." he began, his eyebrows creased in astonishment. "The escaped prisoners? Harry, do you know Darcey Weatherborn?"

Harry shot him a strange look.

"No."

"Muggle-born," suggested Ron, a brow raised. "Hogwarts?"

Harry let his gaze drift in thought. His eyes stilled on a stone statue near the corner of the wall. His scar prickled like thousands of needles on his forehead. His memories looked foggy and blurry. Almost like a veil of fog concealing everything that was behind it.

"No."

But then, a slight ruckus emerged from the doorway. Harry and Ron shot each other quick glances before they hid away; Ron hid behind a curtain near the window sill; Harry hid behind the wall facing the kitchen. They heard loud footsteps thunder across the hollow floorboards, stopping somewhere near the hallway. Harry carefully peeked from behind the wall. He glanced around the room. His eyes stilled on a large metal plate perched on top of the fireplace that reflected the doorway near the hallway. It showed about three dark-clothed figures. Harry met Ron's gaze and silently held up three fingers to Ron.

Ron nodded.

He watched as Ron pointed his wand at the floating candles and the fireplace to extinguish the lights. Harry turned away and faced the kitchen, his eyes skittering, trying to find something that would trap the Death Eaters. His eyes lingered on the fridge near the pastry. Glancing back, he could hear the muttering of the Death Eaters. They were still in the hallway. It didn't seem that they had noticed anything amiss.

Carefully, Harry reached down and cast a Silencing Charm on his shoes before he rushed to the fridge. He likewise cast a Silencing Charm on it before moving behind it to unplug the extensions. Then, cursing his thin frame, he conjured all of his strength to push it out to reach the cords. As soon as they were pulled out, he levitated it back into the living room but kept it near the ceiling. Taking the clue, Ron cast a blasting charm on a vase near the fireplace.

"What the bloody–?" sputtered a male's voice loudly.

There was a rush of footsteps. They heard a stampede of footsteps as the Death Eaters rushed into the living room. But as soon as they stepped inside and tried to illuminate their wands, Harry send the fridge pounding into them hard. Two of them collapsed under it, but one was not so lucky.

"Get back here, you cowardly rat," Ron barked.

With the skill of an Auror, he aimed his wand at the third Death Eaters and trapped him with ropes, sending the Death Eater toppling to the ground. With the lights back on, Harry and Ron glanced at each other quickly before Ron stunned him for good measure.

"Let's check the rest of the house," said Harry, meeting Ron's eyes. The latter nodded.

Harry turned to travel up the stairs, his wand aloft at his side. He kicked doors open, treaded over fallen items, and dug through cabinets and drawers. Rugs were torn and dusty. Portraits broken and lopsided. Furniture thick with dust. Harry even found large patches of mold on the walls and termites feeding on the wood. Maggots feeding off of rotten food. There was lots of dust, almost enough to choke him. The books that he found were rusty and ancient. Clothes looked worn and out of date, some of which didn't even look like anyone had touched them at all. All of which gave him the hint that this village had been asleep for a while – perhaps even ten years or so.

But as soon as he reached the end of the hallway, he noticed that the last door at the end was hung ajar. There was a light inside.

He peered inside carefully and sighed in relief.

It was just Ron.

The latter was standing with his back to Harry, looking forward. Harry followed his gaze and startled. Impervious to the brawls downstairs, there were two young children that looked about five years on their beds, sound asleep. The girl, he noticed, even had her stuffed bear tucked near her chest. Both of them were still breathing, but they didn't stir.

"Is this a habit of yours?"

Harry stiffened. He turned to Ron with a questioning look, but Ron didn't look at him. He had his eyes fixed on the sleeping villagers.

"What?"

"Erasing your memories?" stressed Ron, running a hand through his hair. "That's why Voldemort never caught you releasing the prisoners, isn't it?"

Harry's eyes darkened.

"He did."

Ron's eyes widened. He turned to look at Harry in shock.

"He _did_?"

"Only recently," said Harry brusquely. "The Order knew about it."

"They ranted on you?"

"Your dad's imposter. He told Voldemort."

"But you sent Darcey Weatherborn to us," said Ron quickly. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Seven years."

"But you've only just been caught," said Ron, a thoughtful look on his face. "Do you remember sending one of the prisoners to Shreveport Alley?"

Harry stared at him. His gaze drifted across the sleeping bodies on the bunk beds in thought. He did, in fact, remember sending someone off to Dumbledore. But all he could see in his mind was a massive blur in the shape of the figure. He couldn't see the face. He couldn't even tell its age.

"Vaguely," he replied absently.

"You sent her off to Dumbledore," added Ron, his blue eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Harry hesitated. "I . . . wanted to speak to him," he muttered, his eyes fixed on a moving picture of a family near to him. "I thought he'd get my message . . ."

"What message?"

"That I was alive," replied Harry, slowly growing irritated. He almost felt like he was being interrogated. "That I was with Voldemort."

"You could've sent an owl," pressed Ron. "Or a Patronus. Why didn't you tell us? We could've helped you."

"I can't cast a Patronus," he said, stifling his annoyance. He reckoned that it was because that Ron was acting very Auror-ish right now.

"What?" breathed Ron in disbelief. "But . . . you learned it when you were thirteen. You were the best at it."

"I find that hard to believe," muttered Harry.

"It's true," insisted Ron. "You were the best at Defense Against the Dark Arts. Remus taugh –" he stopped, a look of regret his eyes. "Oh," he said lamely. "Right." His voice trailed off.

Harry raised a brow. "Anything else?" he said irritably. "Or do you want to know the colour of my socks?"

Ron winced, but he didn't say anything. Instead, they hurried down the stairs, out of the house, and further down the trail. But when they reached the end near where the Thunderbird was, Harry quickly caught Ron by the scruff of the neck and dragged him behind a stack of barrels. From their positions, they could hear the Thunderbird screeching and wrestling against its chains. But Harry touched a finger to his lip and jerked his thumb left. Ron followed his thumb and stilled at the sight. A row of Lethifolds were slinking away, their cloak-like figures drifting like a bat as they passed.

As they passed, however, Harry suddenly stiffened. There, above a bridge connecting the platform near the Thunderbird and the lookout of the village were almost five Death Eaters. At the sound of cackling, he looked left and caught sight of about three other Death Eaters lingering in the garden of one of the houses.

Harry touched a hand to Ron's fore-arm and tilted his head up.

"There's Death Eaters," whispered Harry through the corner of his lips. "Up there. On the bridge."

From his peripheral vision, Harry watched Ron look up and pale at the sight. "There's too many of them. And we can't let Voldemort know what we're doing."

Harry stared. He scanned the whole length of the bridge, trying to think of something. But then, his eyes lingered at the ropes that held the wooden platforms together. And his lips began moving without his consent.

"We can bring the bridge down," suggested Harry absently. Ron turned to him with a frown.

"How?"

But Harry already started maneuvering around the barrels. "You get the ones near the garden," he whispered to Ron. "I'll get the ones on the bridge."

Ron nodded. "Right."

They parted ways. Ron travelling left while Harry continued to move forward, his wand aloft at his side. His dark robes made it easier to keep him concealed. He moved with the shade, pointedly avoiding the incendiary glare of the moon. From his position, he could hear the faint screeches of the Thunderbird. Carefully, he approached the underway of the bridge and looked up. He could see about five pair of feet. He looked down again and ducked behind a large stack of crates below, trying to come up with an idea. He didn't want them to know which direction the spell would come from. He looked down the trail but there was nothing there that could cause a distraction.

Damn it.

There must be something, he thought. He looked down at the crates in front of him, then scanned the village again. His eyes stilled at the wooden houses. Then, an idea struck him.

His hand moved. His wand pointed down at the trail at one of the windows of the houses on the far end of the trail. Then, in a quiet voice, he muttered:

" _Confringo_."

The window shattered. From above him, Harry saw the Death Eaters startle, heard their scurried footsteps as they moved to point their wand in the direction of the sound. Seizing the chance, Harry quickly moved to point his wand up at the ropes binding the bridge together.

" _Diffindo_."

He heard the bridge collapse and quickly ducked behind the crates again. With loud shouts, the Death Eaters collapsed in heaps, limbs piled on limbs, cursing profusely out loud. Some of them had even received broken bones. Still concealed, Harry used the ropes of the bridge to bind them all together into a net. He made sure that their hands were tangled in the ropes to ensure that they wouldn't get their hands on a wand before he turned on his heel and fled the crime scene. He sprinted past the now broken bridge, down the trail, and turned left. He hoped that Ron was all right. And as soon as the thought crossed him, he nearly ran right into the subject in question.

"You all right?" inquired Harry, a hint of concern in his voice.

"Yeah," panted Ron, his face shining with sweat. "Just peachy."

Stepping back, he saw that Ron had made it through with just a blue bruise on the side of his head. But like Harry, he was breathing heavily. He turned to lean on the wall of the house next to them, hands on his knees, but somehow grinning.

"I was thinking . . . just in case you were a Death Eater and all," panted Ron, wiping sweat from his face. "What _is_ the colour of your socks?"

Harry's lip twitched.

"Red."

But suddenly, Harry recoiled, drawing a sharp intake of breath, both hands clutching his forehead. Blinded by the pain, he sank to his knees. He didn't even notice Ron shouting his name. All he could see was the roaring flames in front of him, the fire snaking and snapping at every inch of wood it could grasp. It was alive. It was _furious_.

In front of him, he saw the sleeping bodies of the villagers stacked up one on top of each other. Limbs upon limbs. The live tangled with the dead. A circle of Lethifolds were around them. Dozens and dozens of them slinking on top of their prey, draping around them like a comforter into an embrace that would never be broken. But he didn't feel disgusted. Nor empathetic. No, he felt elated. He felt _victorious_. He could feel the laughter bubbling in his chest. Feel the mad cackle escape his lips.

And he laughed. And laughed.

"Harry!" shouted a distant voice. He felt himself being shaken but he didn't know why. "Harry! You all right?"

Harry snapped his eyes open. Breathing heavily, his face drenched in sweat, he dazedly looked up. But for a moment, he didn't recognize the figure hovering above him. He jerked his arm from beneath his grip before everything started to come back to him.

He shakily stood up.

"I'm fine," he said shakily, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Fine."

Ron puffed out a breath. "Gave me a right scare, you did," he muttered, but Harry was too busy collecting his thoughts to hear him. "For a moment, I thought you were . . ." His voice trailed off.

But Harry caught the slip.

Pursing his lips, he said. "Come on."

But before he could leave, he felt a hand shot out to grasp his shoulder. Harry glanced back and shot Ron a questioning look.

"Listen, Harry –" Ron began.

"Drop it."

"You should know –"

Harry shook his head. "I don't want to hear it," he said firmly. Ignoring Ron's regretful look, he beckoned him onward. "Come on."

Ron looked disgruntled but nodded. Harry knew that he wanted to apologise. That he wanted to confess his guilt. But Harry didn't blame him for what had happened to him – nor anyone, in fact. He didn't need his apologies. Except for the Ministry and the Death Eaters, that is. They scurried off, their cloaks billowing behind them. In the back, the Thunderbird screeched behind them, though it sounded more and more distant as they moved. They stopped near a large, dry stone wall fountain in the center and glanced around for any nearby Death Eaters. The fountain was actually in the shape of a Thunderbird, its wings outstretched, its mouth agape. Harry supposed that it was intended to spit water, but it looked to be dry now.

"Wish we could use them as pawns," Ron muttered under his breath. But Harry looked up at him.

"The Death Eaters?"

"Yeah," suggested Ron. "like . . . Death Eaters against Death Eaters . . ."

"What do you mean?" asked Harry curiously, a brow raised. "Use them against each other?"

"Yeah, sort of like that."

Harry frowned, his eyes fixed ahead.

"I don't think they'll be convinced."

"I know," he replied hastily. "Stupid plan."

But Harry's gaze stilled at a green signpost near the door. And like a gift from Heaven, he suddenly had an idea. "Wait, no," said Harry slowly, his eyes wide. "That's-that's brilliant."

Ron startled.

"What?"

"The Imperius Curse," said Harry hastily. "They can't throw it off."

"And risk a life sentence in Askaban?" demanded Ron, his eyes as wide as a pocket watch. "Are you mad?"

Harry grimaced. "I've already got my spot reserved, thanks."

Ron winced at the dry comment.

But after a moment of deliberation, he nodded. "I suppose," shrugged Ron. "Guess if the Ministry's after my head anyway, it's worth a shot, right?"

Consequently, they retraced their steps. They returned back to the places where they had taken down the Death Eaters, awakened them, and cast the Imperius Curse. But the effort near where Harry had taken down the five Death Eaters near the bridge actually proved difficult. They had to stun them first. But as they tried to detangle them from the ropes, they accidentally cut some flesh from the Death Eaters while using the Severing Charm. But all in all, they were minor injuries. Though Harry would admit, he didn't care an iota what happened to them. But soon, they Imperiused them and sent them off.

When they were finished, Ron actually looked pleased with himself.

"Well, that really lifts a man's spirit, doesn't it?" he remarked, watching the last Death Eater limp away. Harry absentmindedly rubbed at his head.

"I suppose."

Ron looked back at him, concerned.

"You all right, Harry?"

His head was searing with pain. He turned away from Ron to lean his forehead against the stone wall of the bridge behind him. He could see it again.

The fire. The smoke. The ruins.

He shot a furtive glance at Ron before he looked around. The blinding light of the waning moon teased him from above. The rotten stench of the village a foul reminder of what was to happen. He could smell the smoke – the fire from down the trail. But the village was deathly quiet, impervious to the turmoil and the chaos. Dimly, he could hear the screeches of the Thunderbird from afar. He looked around hastily, trying to find something – _anything_ , that would give him a higher elevation.

And he found it.

A Watchtower! Without thought, he ignored Ron's shouts and bolted to his left. He leapt over overturned shop stations, over the sprawled bodies of the sleeping villagers, and down the trail. His mind was numb. He felt sick. He felt dirty. He felt nauseous. He sprinted down and climbed the steps of the Watchtower two steps at a time. As he neared the edge, he stilled in horror.

His heart surged to his throat at the burning red smoke near the edge of the village. He could even see the sleeping bodies of the villagers piled up one on top of each other in the dead center, Voldemort hovering over them. He could see almost a dozen Lethifolds consuming them, digesting them until they were nothing more than a memory. He could smell their burnt flesh, the burnt wood of the houses, and . . . _death_. Combined with the already rotten smell, the place _reeked_ with death.

They were too late.

Harry blanched. His gaze fixed numbly on the daunting figure of Lord Voldemort. The latter stood, his wand outstretched, ready to cast the spell that would leave the whole place smothered with the ashes. He looked down the trail. He could see the ominous cloud of the smoke far across. It was familiar. Of course it was. It was a cold reminder of that night. The night that he had told Ron about. This village would perish just like his victims if Voldemort implemented his plans. And no one would even notice that its gone. These people would just be a memory. Forgotten. Meaningless.

Harry couldn't let that happen. He had brought Voldemort here.

And he would be responsible for taking him out.

As if reading his thoughts, a hand shot out to clutch at his shoulder. Funny, it was almost if he had known what Harry was planning.

"Harry –" Ron started.

Harry stepped back and let the hand fall for his shoulder. He turned to face Weas – Ron – with both determination and ambivalence on his face.

"You've got to listen to me."

"Like hell I'll listen to you!" said Ron angrily.

Frustrated, Harry shook his head. He grabbed Ron's upper arm and tried to push him to leave.

"You've got to get the villagers out of here."

Ron jerked his arm back. "You're going in there?" demanded Ron, rattled. "You're going to get yourself killed."

"I'm the reason why he's here in the first place," Harry snapped impatiently, his wand clutched tightly in his hand. "It's got to be like this."

Ron clenched his jaw. But Harry kept his defiant look. He couldn't understand why Ron looked so hesitant. After all that Harry had done to him, to others, to Neville, did he really care what Harry's fate was? But even then, Harry could see that a part of him was slowly coming to accept Harry's decision.

Finally, Ron stepped back. He lowered himself two steps below on the stairs.

"I'll try to get the Order here," he said, a hint of reluctance in his tone. "You think you can stay alive until then?"

"I'll try," said Harry quickly, drawing the hood of his cloak up. "Stay with the Death Eaters. You've got to find your dad."

"Where is he?"

"One of the cells in Riddle Manor," he replied quickly, already hastening down the steps. "Under the Invisibility Cloak."

"Harry, I –"

"Go," he demanded from his shoulder, halting in the middle of the steps. "I'll hold him off. You get the villagers."

"Wait –"

"Go!" bellowed Harry.

Pursing his lips, Ron nodded. Harry watched him turn on his heels and down the steps. All the while, he tried to calm his own racing heart. Taking a deep breath, Harry forced aside any unnecessary thoughts and bolted down the stairs of the Watchtower towards his so-called _Master_. He needed to save the villagers. He couldn't let them die the way each one of his victims had. Almost a thousand people . . . Harry would never forgive himself for letting this happen to them. He didn't even care that they couldn't feel it. He didn't even care that they were asleep.

No.

It was time to part ways with Voldemort. It was time that he showed Voldemort where his real loyalties lied.

* * *

 **A/N** : I know, it's late. But it's not because I've abandoned it. I've been working _ahead_. I actually had to split this chapter because it was getting too long. I'm already halfway finished with the next, so hold your breath (seriously).

I got a lot of feedback last chapter, so thanks for that. I really did appreciate all the reviews. And I'm glad you all enjoyed the Harry/Ron interactions. I really like their friendship in the books. I feel like it's very underrated for Hermione's sake. People often underestimate Ron. I like how, whenever Harry suggests something, Ron is quick to jump in, even if he's scared or unsure. That's character _strength_. Sure, he has flaws, but who doesn't?

Yes, I did bump it up to M-rating. It was getting too dark.

R&R!


	15. Chapter 15: Let the Games Begin

Harry bolted down the trail to Voldemort. But almost like a bolt of thunder had struck his head, a thought occurred to him. Knowing Voldemort, he would probably still seek out information. He slowed to a halt behind a long pillar, pointed his wand at his head, and erased his memory of the recent incident with Ron. When he was done, he hurried down the cobblestone trail, feeling intense heat as he neared the center. A rotten, ashy scent was in the air. One of the buildings near the hillsides was blazing, its wooden pillars shattering. Harry knew that it was bound to collapse and spread to other homes. But he had to hurry to get to Voldemort before it got worse. As soon as he glimpsed the long, dark robes in front of him, he thrust out his wand, his spell whipping onward.

"Stop!" shouted Harry, blocking the curse with a shield. Unperturbed, Voldemort turned slowly to meet his offender.

"Who dares–?"

"Your Death Eaters are down, Riddle," said Harry, his wand aloft at his side. "You're alone in this fight."

Voldemort stood for a long moment, his features rippling with both irritation and amusement. It was clear to Harry that he was considering his offer. The pile of dead and living bodies were in front of him, but he turned away from them. Instead, he turned his head towards Harry, who could now see the large, cat-like red eyes from beneath his hood. The dim light of the moon illuminated his lower face, giving his already pale snake-skin a tint. Then, as if humouring Harry, he straightened, his eyes glittering with a challenge. His long, spider-like fingers curled around his wand.

He accepted the challenge.

"Ah, ever the Gryffindor, Harry," commended Voldemort with a mock bow. "Chivalrous and noble as your father. If only he could see his son now, how proud he would be . . . How unfortunate that he is too occupied rotting in his grave to notice."

"I've had enough of your lies, Riddle," said Harry angrily. "I'm going to stop you here – tonight. We'll see who's the better man, then."

Voldemort looked amused. "Then perhaps let us adhere to traditional dueling etiquette. First, we bow, Harry," he said with a mock bow, his large slit eyes pinning into place. "Bow before Death."

Harry didn't see a reason to defy him. So he complied.

"Of course," he replied, bowing with a pointed glare. " _Master_."

Voldemort straightened with a wry smile. "You learned your place. You see, Harry, I disciplined you more than Dumbledore ever did. Funny how the thing which you despise is the most is often what is best for you."

Harry's hand clenched around his wand, his teeth gritted in anger. "You'll never be better than Dumbledore."

Voldemort's lip twitched. Harry had struck a nerve in him. But that was what he was intending. Before either could consider any other alternative, they lifted their wands and fired their spells, drawing an earth-shaking collision between them. A long, spindly, electric cackle emerged from between them. Suddenly Voldemort repositioned to wand to cause the connected spells to hit the walls on the side, breaking the connection. A stream of curses surged towards Harry, who quickly drew a shield to block them. He shifted a few steps back, slightly repelled by the curses. Before Harry could blink, Voldemort appeared behind him, knocking Harry through the wall of the house behind him.

Growling, Harry quickly bolted to his feet. He had just lifted his wand to cast the blasting charm when a dark shadow surged past the opening. Voldemort appeared in front of him, catching him off guard by the wrist.

He was fast!

"Do you really think you can best me in a duel, Harry?" he hissed, his teeth bared. Harry gritted his teeth, struggling against his grip. "Do you really believe that you possess the power that the Dark Lord knows not?"

With a twist of his hand, Voldemort twisted Harry's wrist with a loud _snap_. With a loud cry, Harry recoiled, dropped his wand, and stumbled back a few steps. With a flick of his own wand, Voldemort sent Harry crashing against the bookcases behind him. He gave a loud cry when his back collided roughly against the edges. Mountains of books and thick dust crumbled over Harry. He couldn't move. Coughing out dust, he shoved the books off of him and reached up to wipe his glasses. Breathing heavily, his mind numb with pain, he tried to rise to his feet but found that something was keeping him in place.

Panting, Harry glared as Voldemort moved to stand over him. The latter looked down at him with unconcealed disdain on his face. Clutching his broken wrist to himself, Harry chanced a glance for his wand. He found it hanging on a long, broken wooden tile, its hinge hovering in air near his foot. He tried to move his head an inch above the ground, but he felt a dark fog cloud his vision. He groaned and let his head slump back, swiping his sleeve against his dust-clouded glasses.

"Your actions have proved to be insufferably predictable, Harry," said Voldemort idly. Blinded by pain, Harry squinted his eyes open to glare at him.

"Go to hell," he hissed.

Voldemort's lip curled.

"Oh, I have a place reserved for both of us."

But as Voldemort tried to wave his wand, Harry kicked his wand and rolled to the side to catch it with his left hand. In one move, he rose to his feet, pointed his wand at the ground, and blasted the ground under Voldemort's feet. Struggling to squint past the dust, he gasped when something suddenly curled around his foot, sending him crashing face-first to the ground. One of the statues besides the bookcases had apparently risen to life. It hurriedly pinned him into place and climbed on top of him. Harry tried to scramble out from beneath but it only tightened its arms around him.

Harry cursed.

"Or perhaps you can serve that position for us both," said a distant voice. "I'm afraid that I will be rather barred from entry . . . as protected from Death as I am."

Growling in frustration, Harry looked around again for his wand, but to no avail. He could feel his heart hammering at his chest. He didn't even know where Voldemort was. To no avail, he kicked and shoved at the statue, trying to get it off him. In the back, he could hear the shatter of glass and smell the burning flesh of the villagers nearby. He resisted the urge to vomit. Breathing heavily, he looked around the room for something that would get him out of this mess. But as he wrestled against the rather burly statue, which continued to tighten its grip around him, the hollow jerks of the floorboards suddenly gave him an idea.

These were _wooden_ floorboards.

With a loud cry, he brought his foot as high as he could from under the statue and slammed his heel hard on the floor. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he heard the tall tales of a crack in the boards. He conjured the strength to kick harder and harder until the crack got larger. Suddenly, when the crack got too big to support them both, with a stone statue making it worse, the floor near his legs crumbled. Harry quickly shuffled back on his hands, wincing when the ground made contact with his broken wrist. But the legs of the statue hovered in the air over the crack in the ground. With all his might, Harry pushed at it until it fell below to the basement where it cracked under pressure. He stood up and tried to scurry away when a voice came from behind him.

"Clever, Harry," said an amused voice.

Harry whipped around . . . But too late. With a swift wave of his wand, Harry was sent crashing into the next room. He gasped when his back hit the porcelain edge of the sink. Groaning in pain, he collapsed on his arms besides a tall, full-length mirror. He drew a palm to his side only to find his palm drenched in blood.

Looking around, he supposed that he was in some kind of worn bathroom than anything else. Through the mirror, he glimpsed a stream of curses coming towards him. He quickly drew the mirror in front of him to shield him and outstretched the other arm to summon his wand. He ducked as shards of glass sprinkled the room, some of which pierced his skin. But as he did, he could feel a strong heat in the room that almost singed his skin. Had Voldemort lit the house on fire?

"Competent as I was, I met Death at his door," said a triumphant voice from the cracked opening of the room. Harry caught his wand using his good wrist. "I _trounced_ him – _outwitted_ him."

As Harry scrambled to back away, he cursed at the loud creaks of the floorboard. Sure enough, a curse came flying towards his direction, and he quickly ducked. He shuffled next to the wall behind the shower curtain. He needed to get away. But if he so much as stepped out, the floorboards would give him away. Not to mention, there was a fire somewhere in the house. He needed to avoid it, or put it out.

"I took what gift he was given and transmitted it to myself . . . immortality," Voldemort breathed, his head twisting like that of a reptile. "While you rot besides the graves of your parents, I will remain here on this Earth. And through each passing generation, I will gain what knowledge that we now know as the 'tales of the ancients.' There will no limits, no boundaries to my knowledge. No rival in power."

Pursing his lips, Harry heard Voldemort step through the crack of the wall. Harry quickly stole a glance at the ajar doorway to the bathroom. He needed something to muffle the sound of his footsteps. From beneath the curtain, he pointed his wand at the shower head and blasted it open. Barrels of water gushed out, which allowed him the opportunity to sneak away through the door. He didn't notice Voldemort's phantom rush out to meet him. But as soon as he scampered out, he found himself face to face with Voldemort.

Voldemort moved to disarm him of his wand. Cursing profusely, Harry found that the water at his feet had solidified into ice. He was stuck. Feeling a ripple of irritation, Harry gritted his teeth.

"You're deluded."

Voldemort waved a hand. "A man with knowledge is a man with power, Harry."

"Who're you going to rule over?" asked Harry angrily. "There won't be anyone left."

Voldemort's lip curled.

"All the more reason to implement my plans."

"Not a very thorough one, is it?" Harry shot back.

"Those who cannot die have no boundaries, Harry," said Voldemort calmly. "What punishments await him in the afterlife becomes wholly irrelevant to him. You see, even at the tender age of sixteen, I learned that the only way to conquer Death . . . is to simply acquire his strengths."

"Acquire it?" asked Harry forcibly. "You mean steal it?"

"As long as man lives, Death will always be there to claim his life. He is gifted, Harry. He sees the future, knows the exact time and place that the individual will perish, then pounces on his prey like a wolf among sheep. He is immortal for as long as man is mortal. And he is not limited by time."

From behind Voldemort, Harry saw at least a dozen knives float from the kitchen, their sharp edges aimed towards him. Harry's eyes widened at the sight. With his legs still held in place, he discreetly inched his left hand to the tall cabinet behind him, searching for anything that could block it.

"Ingenious as I was, I took these strengths for my own gain. Unlike Death, I am protected, in short, by _seven_ Horcruxes."

"Seven?" breathed Harry, horrified.

Voldemort smirked.

"You see, Harry," he said icily, with a curt flick of his wrist. "it was fruitless to challenge me."

Harry grabbed a shield from the armoured suit near him, sank down to a crouch, used it to block against the incoming knives. The impact of the knives repelled him slightly. He slammed the edge of the shield against the solid ice, causing it to crack, which allowed him to maneuver his feet. He scrambled backwards, the shield held aloft in front of him. His eyes flitted around hastily, trying to find something that he could fight with. He saw that Voldemort had disappeared from his spot. His heart beating madly, Harry quickly broke a glass case containing a sword used as a decoration and took the sword. His scar pricking was the only reminder that Voldemort was still around. Was he invisible? Was he hiding somewhere? Left? Right? Up?

Suddenly, an idea struck him. He closed his eyes and tried to give into the dull beating in his head. He could look into Voldemort's mind. He wanted to know where he was. And sure enough, he saw himself near the doorway to his left, beside the counters, his wand arm outstretched. Opening his eyes, Harry positioned the sword towards his left. Without another thought, he hurled the sword across to where he knew Voldemort stood. But Voldemort reacted in time to move aside, the sword managing to graze his shoulder where a string of blood appeared. But he didn't look the slightest perturbed.

"Well done, Harry."

Before Harry could think, Voldemort appeared right behind him, striking him with a powerful cutting curse that brought Harry toppling to his knees, the shield dropping with a loud _thud_. He spit out rivulets of blood. His glasses slipping from his nose, Harry looked up with pain-clouded eyes and saw that Voldemort's skin was shedding; his small wound on his shoulder was healing. Harry clenched his teeth. But Voldemort wasn't paying attention to him. Instead, he started to pace around the armchairs and sofas beside the fireplace. With a sudden dread in his heart, Harry realised that there were bodies there. And judging by the rise and fall of their chests, they were still alive.

"Look at them," said Voldemort, gesturing towards the sleeping bodies. "Slumbering away, unaware of your willingness to save them. While you bleed for them, they grow blind and ignorant. That's what Muggles are, Harry. Will they ever know, perhaps . . . If I offered them up as sustenance . . .?"

Harry blanched. Voldemort flicked his wand lazily. Harry soon felt an icy feeling in his stomach. A large, rippling black cloak emerged from behind Voldemort, slinking through the large gap in the wall. It looked almost like a bat, gliding along the floorboards, the edges of its cloak-like body drifting onward. It was a Lethifold. As it approached its prey, it sank onto the floor in a horizontal fashion, slinked on top of its victim like an oversized snail and began digesting it, leaving no traces behind. Harry wanted to stop it; one of the victims couldn't be more than ten years old. But he couldn't move. Voldemort was forcing him to watch.

"No!" breathed Harry.

"But of course," said Voldemort lazily. "a criminal such as yourself would always defend his mutual."

"You're one to talk," spat Harry.

Voldemort's lip curled. "Oh, I do not deny my crimes, Harry, nor am I ashamed of it. I accept readily what I have become. I learned that the only way to rule humanity is by corrupting my own. I do not suffer, Harry. I do not mourn for the innocents. Perhaps if you followed my path, you would find that it will be woefully unnecessary to possess you."

Harry's eyes stilled on the Lethifold. It didn't stop. It just continued to digest its prey like a greedy pig. Finally, it continued onto the last victim: a ten year old boy sprawled on the sofa near the fireplace. But Harry was trapped. He wanted to help, but Voldemort had hit him with something that pinned him in place. He felt dirty just watching it happen. He felt a hollow feeling inside of him, and he clenched his jaw, and turned away.

"You're lying."

"Amusing, is it not?" sneered Voldemort. "That the one born and protected by love is often the one least loved. Did my mother love me, Harry? Perhaps she did. But I saw past it. Beneath a façade of compassion, I saw greed, lust, and selfishness. And from the fruitless infatuation that she had for my father, I was born. A product born out of deceit. A fitting offspring, I dare say. Perhaps she appeared to love me. But were they ever genuine?"

Harry felt numb, his eyes fixed on the looming fire down the hallway. Something about what Voldemort was saying unnerved him beyond measure. What was he on about? And why the hell should Harry listen to him in the first place?

"These fanciful ideas of love are conditioned onto those too weak to fight it," spat Voldemort. "Tell me, Harry, do you protect these people for your own benefit? Do you protect them perhaps because it is engrained in you by Dumbledore? Did you ever ask yourself whether this was genuine love at all? Or is it mere blind faith?"

Harry clenched his teeth. With hot, boiling fury, he wandlessly summoned the sword that he had used earlier and hurled it at Voldemort. But instead of hitting the intended target, it hit a Portrait of a young woman above the fireplace, who shrieked at the sword that pierced her chest. But Voldemort's sticking charm had worn off. Without thinking, Harry rolled aside, ducked under the spell that whipped past his cheek, and dived through the opening of the wall. He tried to make a hasty retreat to the next door. But before he could, he heard Voldemort speak behind him.

"I grow tiresome of these silly brawls," hissed Voldemort. " _Nagini, bind him_."

With the speed of a predator, Harry found something heavy slither up his body. He tried to move, but the snake had wrapped itself around him, causing both of them to collapse onto the floor, Harry still wrestling with it. It wrapped its head around his necks, its fangs bared, hissing spitefully at him. He had landed somewhere in a storage room of some sorts.

" _Let go of me_ ," hissed Harry to the snake.

" _I hear and obey only my Massster_ ," the snake spat, his tongue flickering from between its fangs. Harry felt the insane desire to ring its neck, but unfortunately, his hands were bound by the snake's body.

So he tried for another approach.

" _He'll let you die_ ," hissed Harry in Parseltongue, struggling against the snake. But the snake simply snapped at him with his fangs. " _He'll let me kill you, given the chance. You're nothing to him_."

"Do you speak truly, Harry?"

Harry suddenly felt himself being lifted in the air, the snake slithering off of him. But he couldn't move. He was sent crashing into the ceiling and into the chandelier above. The side of his head hit a plaster, which busted his eyebrow. He felt himself crashing through the wall into the next room, where he finally collapsed face-down onto the floor.

He heaved himself on his arms, breathing heavily, trying to blink out the dark patches in his eyes. He could feel a rough, metallic taste of blood in his mouth that was dripping from a large gash to his head. He felt groggy, almost like he was about to give away into unconsciousness. His arms shook like rubber, and he collapsed again against the floorboards, spitting out mouthfuls of blood as he did. His torso blazed with excruciating pain, his robes drenched with blood. He tried to look up, but all he could see in front of him was a black, blurry haze in the form of a thin figure. And only then did he realise that he had lost his glasses sometime during the fight.

"You know what I loathe the most about supremacy, Harry . . .?" said Voldemort distastefully, his slit-like nose wide with silent fury. "There is hardly a worthy adversary these days."

At the sound of skittering, Harry lifted himself to his arms, wobbling in place, only to look right to find a clutter of rodents feeding on a large, overturned crate of quinces in the corner under a long, thin wooden plaster with overturned flagons on top. There were almost a dozen of them, feeding on leftover food. With the rotten smell of the village in his nose, and the rough taste of his blood, he almost felt the urge to vomit, but he swallowed it back to save his pride. His scar was on fire. Panting heavily, he snapped his head up at the faint susurrus of robes against the floorboards. He looked up and found Voldemort staring down at him with an expression that Harry couldn't quite decipher through his blurred vision.

Voldemort twirled his wand, his snakelike features poised and pensive, but still somehow ominous and intimidating.

"To someone such as yourself, Death is a mercy – a gift. A gift which you will soon beg me for. Shall I grant you your heart's desire, Harry? Shall I finally sentence you to death – for mutiny, for treason? What do you think? I crave your reckoning, Harry."

"Do it," spat Harry.

"But perhaps you have forgotten my one rule," Voldemort sneered. "shall I remind you again? Of course, being the ever merciful Lord that I am, I shall, of course, comply," he leaned forward and hissed. "I do not live to serve, Harry, I live to _be_ served."

Harry refrained the urge to spit at him. But Voldemort must have caught that thought becuase he felt his spine curve until he promptly was lifted off of the ground and onto his knees. A dizzy feeling overcame him, his blood dripped onto the torn rug on the floor, his breathing growing shallower and shallower. Suddenly, two ropes wrapped around his wrists, the ends held by two stone statues on either side of him. His arms were stretched out like the letter 'T'. With a sense of dread in his heart, Harry dearly hoped that Voldemort was bluffing with this method. He couldn't possibly be thinking of . . . Harry blanched.

"In the Middle Ages," began Voldemort wryly. "stretching was used as a method to punish prisoners accused of capital crimes. I dare say, a fitting punishment for you, Harry," he smirked, his eyes blazing. "Strange . . . how Muggles can just as savage, if not more, than wizards. These are ones you are adamant to defend."

This time, Harry could hardly stifle the genuine fear pooling in his stomach. His heart thundered rapidly in his chest, as if desperate to be released. His hands were sweating profusely, his teeth gritted in anticipation. The snake slithered to and fro in front of him. He looked around, trying desperately to find something that would help him out of the ropes.

"Did you think I shall ever oblige to your wishes, Harry?" hissed Voldemort. "I know, equipped with the gift of foresight, that it is Death that you desire. And it is that modicum of mercy I shall never offer."

But as soon as Voldemort caught Harry's eyes wandering, he elicited a tut-tut and waved his wand to tighten his bounds. Harry repressed a scream at the feeling of being pulled apart, the muscles of his arms protesting against the agonizing pain. It was almost like the stretching of an elastic band, only without an end. He could almost hear the tear of his tendons as Voldemort continued to tighten them. But Harry didn't want to give Voldemort the satisfaction of hearing him scream. Instead, he gritted his teeth, his eyes crunched closed, his head pounding. He felt like he was being torn in half. He could hardly take it.

"Scream, Harry," breathed a distant voice, a hint of triumph in his tone. But Harry could hardly hear it droning in his ears. "Pray that others will come to your aid. Watch hopelessly as they abandon you in fear for themselves. You sacrifice yourself for them while they lurk behind shadows – driven by fear and hatred for you. Alluded by the lies that I have fashioned against you. No one will come, Harry."

But Harry continued to hold onto his last bit of dignity and clenched his teeth. He wouldn't let Voldemort hear him scream. But the more defiant he grew, the more amused Voldemort became. Breathing heavily, his eyes bloodshot, his vision blurred with agony, he managed to pry open his eyes to glower at Voldemort, showing him every bit of hatred – every _whit_ of anger that he felt towards the man. But Voldemort simply took his defiance as an excuse to tighten his bonds.

And finally, unable to stifle it any longer, Harry crunched his eyes shut, unclenched his teeth, and elicited a piercing scream that he was sure that the whole world could hear. He could feel the searing tear of his tendons, hear the snap of his disjointed arms, his breath stopping somewhere near his throat, his vision rippling in shades of blacks and red. It was torturous. It was _monstrous_. He wanted to die. He wanted it to end . . .

"Do you feel betrayed, Harry?" asked Voldemort in a mock sympathetic tone. "There is none that knows the feeling better than myself," with bloodshot eyes, Harry glowered fiercely at Voldemort, the latter in which hissed at him. "Let this be a lesson to never attempt to challenge me again."

Harry clenched his eyes shut. His ears were ringing. His blood had rushed to his head. His muscles strained beyond measure.

'Just do it,' said an inner voice. 'Just beg him to stop.'

'I won't,' said a stronger voice. 'I _won't_.'

Harry vaguely registered the fact that Voldemort was laughing, relishing in his agony. In fact, the world was very much a haze of black blurs. He could hear a loud droning noise in his ears, but he didn't even realise that it was from himself. The bones on his already broken wrist pierced his skin. Ten years of pain didn't do justice to just one second of pure agony. For the first time, he wished – he _longed_ for someone to enter, to help him. But true to Voldemort's word, no one came. Harry could feel – _hear_ the tear of his muscles. The feeling of muscles being ripped from bones, and it broke all of his resolve. His chest felt tight, his skin unstitching. This type of pain was beyond comprehension. Beyond thinking. It was either surrender or suffer. It was even worse than a thousand Cruciatus Curses . . .

"I dare say, it gives me great pleasure to keep you alive," laughed a distant voice. But Harry hardly heard anything. "If only to see you suffer and suffer . . ."

The whole world could hear his anguish. His pain. He nearly lost his voice screaming himself hoarse. He wanted to give in . . . But he _didn't_. Finally, feeling the last bit of sanity dissipate, he had just opened his mouth to beg Voldemort to stop when the stretching suddenly stopped, and the ropes were loosened. Harry gasped, his muscles cramped and sore, his eyes glistening with agony. But he forced himself to calm down. Groggily, he saw that Voldemort was distracted by something. But Harry, so engrossed in his pain, couldn't bring himself to care.

"What?" snapped Voldemort, moving towards the side window. "What is this fracas? Who dares to intervene?"

The ropes were slightly loosened to the point where he could barely tuck his elbows. But as he tried such a simple movement, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of pain that he had to close his eyes for a moment. Drawing in a shaky breath, Harry lifted his heavily-lidded eyes when spindly, bony fingers fisted in his hair. His head was forced up until he found himself staring into cat-like red eyes. Vaguely, he could feel Voldemort sifting through his mind, but he didn't have the strength nor will to stop him. Finally, Voldemort straightened, though his face didn't give anything away.

"Could it be . . .?" he murmured almost absently, releasing his grip on Harry. "Another traitor, perhaps? . . . Ingenious."

Unable to keep his head up, Harry bowed his head, his groggy mind unfurling. Drawing in shaky breaths that felt like thorns in his lungs, his mind was racing. He watched, unable to speak out as Voldemort swished his cloak and stalked outside, the snake following behind him. Harry could feel a prickle of panic overcome him. He hoped that Voldemort didn't suspect Weasley. If he did, then not only was Ron dead, but Arthur, too. The man was nearly on his death bed, anyway. Hell, Harry reckoned that he wouldn't even survive the week if someone didn't find him.

Breathing heavily like a starving man in a thousand days at sea, Harry dimly shook his head, trying to rid himself of the large black patches in his eyes. He could vaguely hear the shouts and blasts outside, but he could hardly register them over the precarious wave of unconsciousness that he was so tempted to give into. He wobbled slightly on his knees, the bounds near his broken wrists preventing him from collapsing face-first onto the ground. But no. He couldn't give into unconsciousness now. Not now. Voldemort was out there. He could probably hurt someone – everyone. No. Harry needed to get up. To follow him. He needed to hold back Voldemort.

Just a _little_ longer.

But he was so, so tempted to just give in. Who exactly was he trying to save again? Did it even matter? No, he thought firmly. This wasn't the time to dwell on petty matters. Through the hazy pits of his pain, he realised that he only had one objective. He had to get himself out of these bonds. But the searing pain in his torso and his shoulders reminded him just how devastating his injuries were. Hell, _everything_ hurt. Blinking several times, he managed to get his head up in time to look through the broken side window. He could see a flicker of shadows in the walls, hear people cry out for each other, and feel the shake of the house from several blasts near to him. From beyond, he could see the hint of a light, and he knew that it was almost dawn.

He needed to get out.

But _how_?

There was a fire somewhere in the house. It was a bit far from him, but he knew, with the houses made of wood, it would spread fast. He could feel its intense fury flickering behind him. Knowing that he didn't have much time left, he shook his head again and looked around the room. He could almost feel the searing heat in the room, his lungs felt on fire, and he was sweating in barrels. There were still people outside. They were going to be burned alive if he didn't act soon. His ears perked at the sound of skittering and a low noise coming from his left. He directed his gaze there, and his heart leapt in his throat.

Rats!

Of course. Almost a dozen of them feeding off a large pile of rotten quinces in an overturned crate in the corner. Swallowing away his panic, he looked around at the ground, trying to find something that would lure them in. Something that was near him, perhaps. He lifted his head, his eyes stilling at a rotten quince about four steps from him. Casting a wary glance at his bound arms, he stretched himself down on the cracked floorboards and outstretched his legs as far as they could, trying to reach the fruit. Though the heat from the room was becoming unbearable; he could almost feel the ashes down his throat. He gave a loud scream when his disjointed arm strained, but finally, he caught the quince beneath his heel and shuffled it towards him.

Breathing heavily, he winced at the blinding pain. But something – a survival instinct, perhaps – kept him going. Spitting out mouthfuls of blood, his head throbbing, he ducked his head, caught the fruit between his lips, and rubbed the rotten edges against the bonds of his left wrist before spitting it out. Grimacing against the ashy taste, he glanced left, desperate to be released. He could almost feel the heat of the fire against his back. His face drenched with sweat. But finally, after what seemed to be the longest three minutes of his life, one of the rats noticed the smell.

'Come on,' he thought vehemently. 'You know you want it. Now come and get it.'

And sure enough, he was right. After a moment of stillness, the rat skittered over, hopped over his knees, and unto his arms where it began chipping away against the ropes for the quince residue. Other rats soon followed, almost a dozen of them. By the time the last thread of the rope in his left arm was pierced, Harry felt the fire licking away against his back. He hissed at the impact, cursing himself profusely for letting Voldemort disarm him.

He hadn't a wand. Voldemort had kept his wand.

As quickly as he could manage, he wobbled to his feet and backed away from the fire, a wave of nausea clouding his vision. He could hardly hold himself up. Carefully, he sauntered over to the aloft window and kicked it open. It shattered. He caught one of the shards of glass and used it to pierce the rope of his right hand. Swinging one foot over the sill, he lifted himself out of the house and collapsed onto the barren grass, panting like a thirsty mutt. Sweat ran in rivulets down his body. But the cries of the people nearby propelled him forward. He felt detached from his body. He didn't know what kept him going, what kept him limping . . . one foot in front of another . . . until a purple blur rushing towards him caught his attention.

Was he dead? He wondered. Was that Death finally coming to claim his life? Funny . . . he had always imagined Death in dark robes. Should he welcome it? Should he resent it? He had seen enough, hadn't he? Harry dimly registered the rugged surface of the pillar that he was leaning against. His strength faltering, he sank down, his breathing shallow. Dimly, he could hear the incessant cries of, what seemed like, a very familiar, elderly voice. But as he strived to give into unconsciousness, something bitterly cold splashed onto his face.

"Harry! Harry!"

Blinking rapidly, Harry groggily looked up at the figure in front of him. It was rather tall, bespectacled with a long, white beard. But for the life of him, he couldn't fathom who it was. But he didn't have time to dwell on that. Feeling himself dried from the water splashed onto his face, he gave a loud cry at the sound of his arms popping back into place. But that was enough to snap back to reality. Wincing, he squinted up into hazy blue eyes that seemed both familiar and not.

"Dumbledore?" murmured Harry, prying his eyes open to stare at the blurry figure. He felt something slip on his face, and his vision cleared. "What are you–?" After a moment of confusion, he bolted up when his groggy mind cleared enough for him to recognise the man. "Dumbledore – the Order – !"

"The Order is safe," reassured Dumbledore, guiding Harry to his feet. "It is far too dangerous to stay here, Harry. We must leave at once."

But Harry blinked several times, regaining a bit of strength. "No!" he said stubbornly, jerking his arm away from the man. "We've got to stop them."

"It's nearly impossible to save all of the villagers," said Dumbledore. His wand was aimed at the burning home, its tip gushing water. "There is hardly enough Thestrals to carry –"

Harry shook his head, his head suddenly sound again. "Nevermind Thestrals . . ." he said, stumbling on the cobblestone trail. "There's another way."

"Harry," called Dumbledore, throwing him a stern side glance. "We must leave –"

"No!" said Harry vehemently. "Go, get out of here! I've got a plan."

"Harry – "

"Trust me," he said hurriedly, clutching his side. "I have a plan. Take what you've got and get out of here."

Dumbledore gave him a long, piercing look. "Very well," he nodded, levitating the bodies down to the Thestral stables. "Good luck, Harry."

Harry nodded. Without a backwards glance, he tore down the trail with only his adrenaline fueling his energy. There was fire everywhere, beaming in the dim string of the dawn. The smell of burnt and rotten flesh nauseated him. It was almost like a nightmare, something that couldn't possibly be real. It was searing. It was merciless, flickering, snapping, unfurling. A reminder of the chaos and despair of the world. But where the hell was Voldemort? He was around here somewhere. Harry could see flashes of images of where he was in his mind.

There were bursts of light all around. It seemed that the Order had responded to Ron's Patronus. They had joined in just in time for the Imperius Curse on the Death Eaters to wear off. And they were everywhere. On the rooftops, inside the buildings, on balconies. Some of them, both Death Eaters and Order members, even started aiming their wands at Harry as he whipped past. An entire building toppled to the ground in front of him, and he had to duck and find another path. Cursing himself for being wandless again, Harry hastily grabbed nearby Death Eaters and used their bodies to shield himself from incoming curses. Without thinking, he dragged one of them beneath a steep wall and searched their clothes for a wand. And he found one. But his faint sense of victory was ill spent, for, a tall, slim familiar figure moved to stand in front of him. Harry merely swallowed at the sight.

Shit.

Voldemort's lip curled. His blazing red eyes were glittering madly from behind his hood, almost as if amused that Harry had managed to escape again.

"Back again, Harry?"

Before Harry could think, he ducked, letting Voldemort's spell hit the wall behind him. Quickly casting a shield behind him, he gradually moved backwards before turning the corner and bolting to his right. Voldemort was right. It was fruitless to fight him . . . not with seven Horcruxes to back him up. Harry leapt over slain bodies, sprinted across the cobblestone trail, ducked under the arms of nearby duelers in his way. He didn't even notice how much blood he was losing. All he knew was that Voldemort was following him. And the fact that he could travel in phantoms unnerved Harry beyond measure.

"Come out, Harry," mocked a quiet voice from behind him. Harry quickly ducked behind the stone wall of the bridge ahead. "You cower behind the shadows like the coward you are. Your father would be disappointed."

Harry bristled. He wanted so much to prove Voldemort wrong by meeting him face-to-face, but he had to get to the Thunderbird. Carefully, he backed up, cast a Silencing Charm on his shoes and a Disillusionment Charm on himself, and inched up the stairs to the platform above him. He could hear Voldemort's footsteps drawing ever closer, and he sped up his pace. He didn't know whether Voldemort could see past Disillusionment Charms, but he didn't want to risk it.

"What strength do you have left?" hissed Voldemort, drawing ever nearer. "Nothing. In time, you will come to see the consequences of your actions. For every soul that you save, a hundred more will die . . . By your hand, of course."

From above the platform, the Thunderbird wrestling wildly behind him, Harry could see that Voldemort was aiming at a large pile of bodies littered across the cobblestone path. Harry felt his heart racing. He knew that Voldemort would never take back his word. He would do it, which is what compelled Harry to disable his Disillusionment Charm and step up to the edge of the platform.

"We'll see about that," said Harry loudly, holding onto a rope levitating almost a dozen flour sacks that were tightly wound together.

Voldemort sneered up at him, emphasising his snakelike features. "Your deplorable sense of morality sickens me. You will find yourself in the same rotten end as they are. Nothing but ashes and dust – forever forgotten."

Harry tried to bit back with a retort when he felt an agonizing pain in his forehead. Blinded, he sank to his knees, one hand clutching his forehead, the other to the rope. The world was nothing but a hazy blur to him. It was as if someone was amputating him – limb by limb until he was almost completely separate from his body. Harry hardly registered the fact that Voldemort was laughing.

"You see, Harry, you can never truly betray me. I see through your eyes, I hear through your ears. No matter where you go, when you try to flee, you will always risk the lives of others. That is your fate," he swept his arms over the village. "Look at what desolation you have brought about, Harry."

"I didn't do this," muttered Harry, his hand fisted in his hair, pulling hard on it. The other hand clenched around the rope. "I'd never let this happen."

"Of course you would," said Voldemort softly. "Who else but a follower of mine could ever harbour such cruelty?" he laughed and lifted his wand again. "Tell me, Harry, do you fear Death?"

A rush of fire surged from his wand and onto the sleeping bodies on the floor. Like a balm to his forehead, Harry felt the pain from his scar mitigate. He returned to his former state so abruptly, almost like he was drenched in ice cold water.

"No!" shouted Harry.

But Harry quickly snapped back into reality. He could put out the fire. He had gone through all that rigmarole just get Voldemort out of here. No use in stopping now. Scrambling to his feet, he severed the rope, which caused the flour sacks to collapse and fall apart. The air misty from flour, Harry quickly covered his face with his cloak and rushed to the Thunderbird, which screeched wildly at him, its feathers shifting to a dark purple colour. A stream of curses flew at him, but he ducked. He felt the ground cracking at his feet, the platform that he was standing on wobbling in its place.

He knew that he had get out.

He grasped the flailing wings of the bird, aimed his wand at the chains binding its bird's legs and neck, and blasted them open. But as soon as the Thunderbird realised that it was free, it gave a loud cry, and soared it into the air. Harry yelped, holding tightly to the edges of its wings. He was dangling in the air by the skin of his teeth. Gulping, he managed to free one hand and began to climb up. His glasses were dangling precariously off of his nose. He didn't dare look down. But finally, when he was settled upright, the Thunderbird glowed a bright gold colour, beat its wings rapidly, and the Heavens burst open. A cackle of thunder was heard from above, and a shower of rain thundered down onto the burning village. The bird was rapidly changing colours, eliciting billowing winds as it whipped past.

To Harry's horror, he discovered that a dark smoke rose up to meet the height of the Thunderbird. With a jolt, Harry realised that it was Voldemort. He can fly, Harry thought, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Tightening on the bird's plumage, Harry outstretched his wand and met Voldemort's curse in mid-air, trying to block it from coming towards him. The spindly magic between them cackled like electricity before the bird screeched and sent another swirl of winds ahead, cutting off the clash of spells. Finally, with an upward spiral, it nose-dived out of the village and headed to land. The smell of salty air overwhelmed Harry. He could feel himself losing consciousness with the snapping winds at his hair. Glancing back, he saw that the black fog from Voldemort was gone. Only the incessant throb of his scar reminded him that it wasn't over.

Not yet, anyway.

Feeling the last of his adrenaline efface, he finally registered the numbness of his limbs, his eyes growing heavy, the darkness alluring. Before he could reach the ground, he let his head slump forward onto the changing plumage of the bird and sank into nothingness.

. . . . . . . . . . .

With a numb fear in his heart, Albus paced and paced across the shore of the other half of Fraisdaill Village, trying not to think of all the possibilities – all the predicaments – that Harry could have gone through. He had trusted the young man enough to leave. But if somehow Voldemort managed to get ahold of him again . . . Harry's wounds were severe enough already. Once again, he glanced around at all of the sleeping bodies dispersed on the shore, some with their flesh burnt, some with bruises, some dead. But no one was tending to them . . . not yet, anyway. The Thestrals nearby kicked at the powdery sand of the shoreline.

But suddenly, a loud screech pierced the silence. From across the majestic sea, a large, colour-changing Thunderbird was approaching the shore. Albus squinted through the faint spray of the water. It seems that it had brought a companion, and his heart settled at the sight. As the Thunderbird reached its landing, Albus hurried up to it, grateful that the animal had not forsaken its companion. He patted the bird's plumage before he reached up his wand and levitated the unconscious Harry onto the shore. He quickly checked the pulse, and he felt an ineffable amount of relief when he found one.

Albus tried hard to resuscitate him as well mitigate the severity of his wounds. He removed the blood, fixed his cracked glasses removed the shards of glass poking out of his skin. But as much as he tried to assuage his wounds, he was still in a precarious state. There was still large, blue bruises littered across his body, a large gaping wound in his side and leg that was still actively bleeding, his right wrist still broken, his arms slightly disjointed; he was drenched in ashes and blood. His back was slightly singed from the flames. It was surprising that he had survived so much. But Albus knew that Harry needed the hospital.

"Harry!" he called after casting ' _Renervate_ ' on the young man. He bent down on his knees and tried again. "Harry!"

Harry's eyes snapped open. He recoiled at the bright light of the rising sun. But after blinking for several moments, he opened his eyes and tried to sit up, only to draw back slightly, wincing and clutching his throbbing side. He looked quite bewildered at the sudden change of setting. Albus could see his turbulent thoughts racing in his mind as he gathered his wits. Wincing slightly at the pain, he finally rose to his feet, wobbling slightly. His gaze drifted from Albus, to the sleeping bodies of the villagers, and the sky where the last hint of the village lay desolated.

"He's gone," he muttered.

Albus nodded. "For now."

"I couldn't kill him."

"He cannot be killed," said Albus gently. "Not now. Not at this moment."

"Not as long as I'm alive, you mean," replied Harry, a bite in his tone. But he didn't meet Albus's eyes.

"Harry–"

Harry shook his head.

He redirected his gaze to the large stretch of bodies lying spread-eagled on the shore. "What will happen to them? The villagers, I mean."

With a heavy heart, Albus sighed. "Perhaps what is ordained is often best left untainted," he muttered, his eyes fixed on the bodies of the sleeping villagers.

"You mean, that's it?" demanded Harry, sounding faintly cheated. "Just leave them there?"

"Sleep is a deathlike state, Harry," explained Albus. "And, as far as we know, Death cannot be reversed. The consequences of doing so are, as you know, quite severe."

"Then . . ." he pressed, his voice brittle. "They're dead?"

"If Death is deemed as a sort of an eternal sleep," sighed Albus. "then, yes, Harry. In a sense, they have indeed passed."

"But . . ." argued Harry in disbelief. "There must be another way. I heard–back in the Ministry–the Wiggenweld Potion–"

"–will only render them unfit and unstable enough to process anything, let alone interact with others, rather like victims of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. In short, they will become insane and become prone to inflicting physical harm to themselves as well as their loved ones, which will inevitably result in their deaths. They will be regarded as criminals before the court of law. They cannot be helped, Harry. What little can be done, however, is simply feeding them, nursing them, caring for them until Death claims them."

"Then," said Harry, sounding faintly frustrated. "Why did we save them in the first place? None of it mattered in the end."

"Of course it matters, Harry," insisted Albus. "They still live, do they not? Perhaps immobile, perhaps unconscious, but they live nevertheless. Is an unconscious mind therefore less valuable to you? Or those who live without knowing, for instance, that they live."

Harry looked taken-aback.

"What?" he breathed. "I–No, of course not!"

Albus raised a brow. "You consider your efforts tonight to save the villagers less valuable than perhaps Ron Weasley's life?"

"I– _No_!" he said vehemently. He shook his head, mildly irritated. "How can you ask that?"

"But these concerns are purely rational, Harry," pressed Albus. "Objectively, economically, globally perhaps. After all, to have the Ministry pay for the sustenance and care for these individuals must be difficult – strenuous, even. Do you understand now, how precious a human life is, no matter its state of being?"

"I-I've _always_ –" he pressed, looking slightly nettled by the implication. "I never doubted –"

"Of course not," smiled Albus, his blue eyes drifting across the area. "I am not accusing you, Harry, nor am I implying how you, yourself, would regard the significance of a human life. Of course, you have proved your compassion and your nobility purely by your actions tonight. Perhaps this is proof, of course, that there is always hope after suffering. There is always perseverance, if only one regards it with patience and compassion. We cannot possibly pretend to be the dictator on the matter of life and death, Harry."

"They're innocent," said Harry, disgruntled. "I know."

Albus shot him a piercing look. "Would the fact that they should sleep indefinitely have changed, perhaps, your priorities in saving them?"

Harry shuffled on his feet. "Well," he hesitated, his eyes drifting across the bodies. "I'd like to say that it wouldn't . . ."

But Albus smiled. The twinkle in his eyes returned to his blue eyes.

It seems like Harry had never changed.

"Should one man dictate the faith of thousands, chaos will inevitably follow," said Albus cordially. "It is best to leave these sensitive matters to, perhaps, a higher authority or even the whims of the majority."

"You think they'll keep them there?" asked Harry, throwing a wary glance at the villagers. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

"You suspect the Ministry of treason?"

"Those men tonight," started Harry quickly. "They weren't all Death Eaters, Dumbledore. I didn't recognise half of them, and they didn't have the Dark Mark."

"Quite an astute observation, Harry," remarked Albus, with a pleasant smile. "I, too, have begun to suspect the Ministry. It is not a mere coincidence that Voldemort happened to appear in the center of the Ministry, or why Muggle-borns have been disappearing at a rapid rate over these past ten years. And, of course, the attack on Arthur Weasley –"

"That was me," said Harry quickly. "But–I–I mean, he wasn't Arthur Weasley. He's a spy. He's been using Polyjuice Potion to spy on the Order."

"As Alastor suspected . . ." muttered Albus, marveling the brilliance of his oldest friend. And of course, Harry as well. For his tremendous acts of bravery tonight. "Brilliant, of course."

"The real Arthur Weasley is locked up in the prisons," continued Harry. "I've been watching him. I hid him from the Death Eaters –"

Despite himself, Albus felt his eyes begin to water. Harry didn't realise how very true to himself he was being right now. It was almost nostalgic. As if the ten years had never happened. As if Harry was still the boy that had woken year after year in Hogwarts hospital wing. Albus knew that Harry doubted himself. He could see those thoughts surging through his mind, rippling as clear as water. He knew that Harry thought himself to be the same, or even worse, than Voldemort.

But surely he realised how very unlike Voldemort he was being right now?

"You are very kind, Harry."

"But he's sick," continued Harry, a hint of concern in his voice. He didn't notice the unshed tears in Albus's eyes. "I don't know what – What's that?"

A loud shout pierced the stillness. The two wizards looked up from behind the wooden homes of the residents and found the Order members wrestling with several Ministry workers – or several Aurors, in particular. It was almost a battle judging by the way they summoned their shields and blocked some curses. It was clear to Albus that the Ministry wanted to arrest the Order members, to frame them for the troubles tonight, which further proved to him that they were, indeed, working for Voldemort.

"It appears that the Order will take the blame for all that has happened tonight," said Albus gravely, his mind racing with ways in which he could alleviate the situation.

"They're going to arrest them?" demanded Harry in disbelief. "They can't do that!"

"Oh, they most certainly can," affirmed Albus, almost bitterly. "They have both the power and the jurisdiction to undertake it. Of course, on the basis of false truths . . ."

"But there must be another way!"

"There is little that can be done, Harry –"

"I'll take what little I can salvage," said Harry firmly, already hastening towards the Order. But Albus tried to call him back.

"Harry –"

"Don't try and stop me," snapped Harry.

"I have no such intentions, Harry," said Albus patiently. He wanted Harry to understand just what he was getting himself into. "But, of course, you know the consequences –?"

"Don't start that, Dumbledore."

"You must understand, Harry," insisted Albus. "If you take this path, there is no turning back."

Harry shook his head and whipped around with a blazing countenance. In the dim light, there was a fire in his eyes that Albus had always thought was lost ten years ago.

"It doesn't matter," he replied, frustrated. "You know what you should've done, Dumbledore, back in the Ministry. You should've killed me. You could've saved all those villagers tonight, but you chose me instead. You chose me over everyone else."

A part of Albus felt unsettled by the accusation. Every word spoken by Harry rang bold and true. That there _was_ a consequence of keeping Harry alive. That he was risking the lives of others by keeping him alive. But was he? Harry only needed to learn Occlumency. That was what would fix this whole predicament in the first place. He didn't need to be killed. Not yet. Not at this moment. Perhaps eventually. But Harry needed to be guided first. He didn't need desolation both in this life and the next.

"And yet," began Albus, his eyes twinkling. "you fail to recognize what mercy that you, yourself, not Voldemort, have brought to others, Harry. Had I killed you then, would the prisoners ever have been released? Would the villagers likewise ever have been saved? Or rather, the members of the Order, which all are, as you know, quite indebted to you?"

Harry's eyes darkened.

"It doesn't matter."

"Every person deserves a second chance," reassured Albus gently. "A chance at redemption – a chance to better themselves for as long as they live."

"Not everyone," said Harry firmly, his voice cutting and bitter. "Not me, or Voldemort."

Albus shook his head. "You are not a murderer, Harry. It would give me great grief if you were to pass as one."

"Choosing what you feel over what's right?" said Harry accusingly. "I've always admired you, Dumbledore, but you're wrong. You should've killed me. That was the right thing to do. It doesn't matter what happens to me. One life is nothing compared to a thousand others."

"I do not deny it, Harry," said Albus gravely. "Death, after all, is an inevitable fate –"

"I'll die eventually, I know that," Harry bit out, shaking his head. "Voldemort's a part of me. Why does it matter when it happens?"

"Have you ever considered why an individual as clever and as puissant as Voldemort fears Death above all other things?" asked Albus. But Harry looked taken aback by the response. "With all his power – with all his ambitions, surely a matter as trivial as Death would be something that can be reckoned with, something that can be defeated. Perhaps Death is a trivial matter to the good man, but it is something to be feared by those who challenge it. Consider it, Harry. Had I killed you then, would you have therefore died as an innocent man or as a murderer?"

"It's war," he replied firmly. "It doesn't matter."

But Albus repressed a chuckle at the answer. It was ironic that his answer proved just how selfless he was. Just by the fact that he would willingly sacrifice himself for others. By considering his life as less of a value as others. To even risk suffering indefinitely in order to bring peace.

But he never realised it. And that made him all the more extraordinary.

"Ah, but how the tides have turned," muttered Albus, a watery smile waned his face. "You have proven yourself to be the better man – a better leader than I, with all my glory and ingenuity – could not possibly hope to measure up to. This is, indeed, proof that those who do not seek fame or glory are often more fit to possess it."

"Then . . ." asked Harry, slightly taken aback. "You'll let me go?"

"Let you?" asked Albus, mildly astonished. "My dear boy, it is beyond my powers nor desire to intrude on your own free will. The choice is yours, Harry. It has always been."

But something about that answer caused a guarded look in Harry's eyes. Clenching his teeth, he looked away.

"I find that hard to believe," he muttered.

"You are a good man, Harry," said Albus gently. "Perhaps, someday, if fate permits it, you will come to realise how extraordinary of a man you are."

Unable to keep the man's gaze, Harry's gaze settled on the Thestrals in the corner. A faint look of doubt appeared in his eyes. Albus knew that he doubted himself. That he doubted his morality, his sanity, judging by his haggard appearance. But as the sound of the quarrel reached his ears, he snapped his head up and straightened from his previously slumped position. He turned to look into the direction of the Order and the Aurors with a look that bordered on determination and hesitance.

"Well . . ." said Harry, a hint of reluctance. It was clear that something was still troubling him, but he didn't voice it. "Thanks . . . for everything, I s'pose."

"Good luck, Harry."

Harry nodded. He turned to rush towards the wrestling Order members. Albus watched him go with a heavy heart. A part of him wanted to drag the younger wizard back, but he knew that Harry was stubborn. He would never relent. He just prayed that somehow, by some miracle, that Harry would manage to get himself out of Askaban. But the Ministry was determined to offer him the Dementor's Kiss. He would only be given a limited time until his sentence. But then, he thought . . .

He could always use his own ingenuity to break Harry out of it . . . if necessary, of course.

So, he let him go.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"Wait!" called Harry loudly, skidding to a stop in front of the Aurors. Every person whipped around to look at him. "Stop! Don't arrest them."

He had to duck his head to regain his strength. His duel with Voldemort had weakened him so much. He could feel his adrenaline fading, which caused him to become more aware of how devastating his injuries were. Not to mention, the blood that trickled down his body didn't help much, either. Just the short run from Dumbledore to the Aurors made him pant. He felt out of breath, almost like his lungs were on fire. Straightening up, he caught a glimpse of the Order members looking at him with fear and curiousity in their eyes. It was clear that they were perturbed by his actions.

But as he glanced around, he realised that some of them were lying face-flat on the ground with the Aurors standing over them. Some of them even had bruises and burns, some with their robes torn, some with large, open wounds from their efforts to save the villagers. Some looked irritated by his interference. But at Harry's entrance, one of the Aurors recomposed themselves, straightened, and stepped up to Harry with a startled look on his face.

"Potter!" startled the burly, brown-haired man. He was wearing chestnut robes with a parchment and a Quill hovering in front of him. He turned to look at, what Harry presumed, the surly Head Auror beside him.

But as Harry stepped up again, he froze when suddenly almost a hundred wands were pointed at him. Both the Aurors and the Order members had apparently resolved their differences through him. But as Harry tried to open his mouth to mitigate the situation, he suddenly heard a loud screech and felt a furious, billowing wind cross him. Drawing his cloak over his face, he blinked dust out of his eyes. He looked up through squinted eyes and froze. It seems that the Thunderbird had come to his rescue. Flapping its wings furiously, it settled behind him and tried to snap at anyone who tried to hurt him with its beak, its feathers blazing red. Knowing that the Ministry could very well use that as an excuse to execute it, Harry hurried to stop it.

"No!" he shouted, both hands outstretched. He moved to stand in front of the Aurors, knowing that the bird won't hurt him. "Stop! Don't hurt them."

But one of the Aurors near the Thunderbird straightened up stiffly, his hand clutching his bloody shoulder, shooting an blazing glare at the bird.

"This ruddy bird!" he cried, backing away with a look of fear on his face.

"Well," said the brown-haired man, adjusting his spectacles with a grimace. "it looks like we've got another ache on our heads, boys."

"Call the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," said the Head Auror gruffly. "And bind this wild thing."

One of the Aurors waved his wand to cast a Patronus Charm: a raven, which went soaring into the misty sky. But as the Aurors drew their wands to conjure ropes around the Thunderbirds talons, the Head Auror turned to Harry, who was struggling to keep the Thunderbird down, but the effort proved difficult. But as he heard the Apparation of the Naturalists, he pointedly stepped aside. They paled as they saw him but they immediately got to work by chaining the Thunderbird in place. They wrapped chains around its beaks, neck, and talons to stop it from moving. Irresistibly, Harry wondered whether they would actually keep it alive or kill it.

"Harry Potter," acknowledged the Head Auror curtly, his eyes pinning Harry to the spot. But Harry stepped up, one hand outstretched.

"Stop," Harry urged. "Don't arrest them. It was me. I burnt down the village, I sent the Lethifolds against the villagers. They're innocent."

"What sort of madn – ?" cried the brown-haired man – Vendor.

"It's the truth," replied Harry firmly. He pointedly avoided the stunned gazes of the Order members. "Arrest me. They've got nothing to do with this."

"Harry," breathed a man that looked almost like one of Ron's relatives only with longer hair. "Are you out of your mind – ?"

But the Head Auror interjected. "Mr. Potter," he began sternly, ignoring the curious looks from the villagers nearby. "You confess to destroying Fraisdaill Village?"

"Yes."

"To the unauthorized use of Lethifolds and the release of the Thunderbird?"

"Yes."

"The killing of Neville Longbottom?"

Harry stiffened.

"Yes."

"Of course he did," barked Vendor bitterly, shooting Harry a repulsed look. "He's Harry bloody Potter. We don't need these silly interrogations."

"But, Sir," sputtered another Auror. "Surely he should be given a trial –"

"A trial for You-Know-Who's second in command?" chuckled Vendor bitterly. "Fat chance."

"N-Neville's _dead_?" choked a pink-haired girl.

"Where's Ron?" demanded one of the Weasley brothers.

But the Head Auror interjected. "Mr. Potter, do you confess to the breaking in of the Ministry as well the office of the Head Auror?"

"Yes."

"Were you perhaps involved in the disappearance of Arthur Weasley?"

Harry hesitated.

"No," he said flatly. "Voldemort's got him –"

"He's lying," said Vendor.

"Well, the evidence speaks louder than words, Mr. Vendor," said Gawain. "Regardless on whether or not he is telling the truth, he will, nevertheless, receive a life sentence in Askaban for so much as merely fraternizing with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, as well as the illegal usage of the aforementioned Unforgiveable Curses."

"And justice for his victims, of course," added Vector with a suspicious stare.

"Of course," said Gawain, waving a hand. "Bind him."

Suddenly, Harry felt his wand flying from his hand. It was only then did he feel a modicum of gratefulness about the fact that Voldemort had kept his original wand. The Aurors would sure to have destroyed it. That wand was one of the Death Eaters, which he didn't have the slightest care if it got snapped. But then he thought sullenly, he might never see his wand again. Not where he's going. He struggled to repress a wince as the Aurors roughly grabbed his arms and tied them behind his back with enchanted chains. A dizzy feeling overcame him for a moment. He closed his eyes to try to regain his composure, but he reckoned the amount of blood that he had lost was slowly addling his wits.

"Wait," called a bushy-haired female, sounding oddly emotional. "You can't – ? Dumbledore – you can't let this happen!"

Dumbledore?

From his kneeled position on the arid grass, Harry directed his focus on the tall, elderly man that had just walked in on the quarrel. Dumbledore was looking directly at him, his countenance grave but calm. The original villagers were circled around them, their faces rippled with annoyance and curiousity. Harry tried to project his thoughts out, to plead with the man to let him do this. He knew that Dumbledore was a Legilimens. He knew that he could read his mind. He just hoped that Dumbledore trusted him enough to go forth with this, even if it risked his life. They needed the Order, not him. They needed someone to keep fighting Voldemort. Even if he had to risk his own life to do it, well . . .

So be it.

After a long stare, Dumbledore straightened. "After instigating the destruction of nearly the entire village," he said, almost serenely. "Surely Mr. Potter deserves the punishment, wouldn't you agree, Ms. Granger?"

He gave the bushy-haired girl a pointed look from over his spectacles. But she flinched at his response. It was clear to Harry that she was in denial.

"What are you – ?" sputtered one of the twin Weasley behind Granger. "He's possessed, you old coot –"

But the Head Auror cleared his throat loudly. "Harry James Potter," he began loudly, unrolling a long piece of parchment. "You will, therefore, receive a life sentence in Askaban without any possibility of parole. The Courts will deliberate on whether or not you will be offered the Dementor's Kiss. Any questions?"

"No."

"Very well," nodded the Auror. "Take him away, lads."

"If I may intervene, Gawain," interjected Dumbledore calmly. From behind the Aurors, Harry shot him a warning look.

But the Head Auror's eye twitched.

"What is it, Dumbledore?" asked Gawain impatiently. He didn't seem too thrilled to be talking with Dumbledore. Not to mention, the Order members all around were glaring at him.

"Perhaps it is wise to heal his wounds before sending him to Askaban," replied Dumbledore calmly, and Harry felt a rush of gratitude in turn. "After all, we cannot have the suspect dying in prison before he receives his sentence."

But another Auror interjected. "Well, he'd just have to make do without it, then," he said stiffly, straightening his robes with a glare. "Don't want him to kill the Healer we send to him, do we?"

"On the contrary, Baird," replied Gawain calmly, his eyes fixed on Dumbledore. "Dumbledore is right. We can't bring justice to the victims if the suspect dies before his sentence. It's best that they see the face of the murderer who robbed them of their loved ones before he passes."

"Oh," huffed Vendor. "but this all getting quite dodgy, isn't it? Very well. Very well. He shall be looked after."

He signaled to the Aurors to take Harry away. The other Order members watched with mixed feelings, their postures stiff and tense. Their expressions grim and forlorn. Their faces burnt and ashy. They couldn't deny the evidence. Irresistibly, what Voldemort had said back at the village echoed in Harry's mind like the drawl of a knife along glass. He gritted his teeth and looked away. But as soon as the Aurors neared him, the burly, brown-haired that Harry recognised as Vendor hissed at him.

"You're lucky Dumbledore's here, Potter," sneered Vendor, his voice lowered. "If I'd had it my way, you'd be ten feet under the dirt before you could say the 'dead.'"

Harry groaned when the sharp edge of the man's elbow hit his ribs. He felt his breath knocked out of him. Partially blinded with pain, he glared at the man. He just hoped, if anything, that Weasley would make it out of this mess.

"Before you could form the word in your head, you mean?" asked Harry darkly, his eyes glistening with pain.

The Auror sneered.

"Cheek, Potter."

* * *

 **A/N:** Holy crap. This freaking chapter. That combat scene killed me, but I wanted to do justice to the characters. I really hate absurd power levels. I like it when characters are resourceful and smart about how they fight, and I hope I demonstrated that well. I mean, we all know that Voldemort is obviously just too OP. I don't think Harry can ever meet him in terms of skill alone. He would need – or anyone except for Dumbledore would need – some kind of powerful object to beat him. But whatever. Just me ranting.

Anywho, I just wanted to say that I'm starting University at the end of August, and this story is fixing to be about 40+ chapters, so . . . updates are probably not going to be as frequent then. (These chapters are so long).

I just to emphasise a point, just in case there's a misunderstanding. I am _not_ writing a psychopathic, killing machine dark Harry at all. It goes against his established character to make him out to be someone evil. He is _naturally_ a good person, and if anyone is in trouble, it's his defining character trait to leap first, think later. That's his _essence_. He is _naturally_ noble.

And that's the trait that I wanted to explore. I wanted to challenge that aspect of the character, to the point where 'saving people' can actually have consequences I am not _intentionally_ making him dark. He is _not naturally_ evil. That's the essence of the character.

If you're looking for that kind of story, this is NOT it.


	16. Chapter 16: Presage

_With the outlines of his hood in front of him, the Dark Lord stood in front of the door, his long, bony fingers curled around the knob. He was more than ready to end this. More than ready to show the world that it would never be possible for a small infant that knew little to nothing about the world to defeat someone as puissant and as gifted as he was. Let alone an infant defeating any adult, as a matter of fact. It was illogical. Unthinkable._

 _Impossible._

 _It was all too easy, as he thrust open the door, a rumbling laughter drumming in his chest. It was almost like a song, a lullaby, to his soon-to-be victim. Ahead, a tall-figure with glasses stepped into the foyer, his hazel eyes widening at the intruder._

 _"Lily, take Harry and go!" cried James Potter to his wife, straight-backed with determination. "I'll hold him off!"_

 _But the Dark Lord couldn't resist another bout of laughter. How foolish . . . Gryffindors and their witless leaps . . . without a wand, what could he possibly do to him–to the greatest wizard of all time?_

 _He had almost pointed his wand at the man, intending to send him writhing to his death, when something–a mysterious feeling–coiled around his wrist like a snake, preventing him from continuing. Instead, he lowered his wand, his heart bleeding with longing instead of the previous aversion for the man. As if some external force was manipulating him, he_ _approached the man and tried to lay a hand on him–his_ father _–to try to tell him that he was being controlled, that he was being forced to do this. But as soon as his fingertips touched his father, the latter turned into solid gold, his hands flailed out in defense._

 _Horrified, the Dark Lord stumbled back, a silent cry in his mouth, only to hit something solid behind him. Slowly, he turned around to find his mother standing with one hand outstretched, as if reaching for his shoulder._ _But she was frozen, and like his father, her body had turned into a bright gold colour at his touch. He had killed her. His chest heaving, he collapsed onto his knees, his bony fingers fisted around his hair, his heart ripping apart in agony._

 _And he screamed. And screamed._

Gasping, Harry bolted up from the bed, pressing his palms against his searing forehead, his face drenched with sweat. He hardly registered his injuries. He was so engrossed in his pain that he hardly noticed his surroundings. Finally, the pain subsided, leaving behind a dull ache, and a bile feeling at the back of his throat. Blinking away dark patches from his eyes, he wiped hastily at his teary eyes before he registered the fact that he was _cold_. From around his cell, he could hear the familiar hoarse breathing of the Dementors. The place reeked with dead flesh and salty air. He looked around, the events of the previous night drenching him like water. He was in Askaban, not Godric's Hallow, although neither of them seemed to be a pleasant revelation. But at least he wasn't seeing his parents dying or even . . . outright turning them into gold.

Harry shook his head. He didn't want to think about it.

The stillness and the strait of the cell bothered him. He had never gotten used to it, even though he had spent almost ten years in them. It forced him to think about things that he would be better off not thinking about – unpleasant things even though he _should_ be thinking about them. In fact, he should be torturing himself for every second that the families of his victims mourned for their loved ones. But the only benefit he got from feeling utterly miserable and grieving indefinitely for his victims was that the Dementors didn't seem to be influencing him as much as they did his first years in prison. They fed on happiness, mainly. Forced their hosts from their happiness in order to make them hopeless and melancholy, but they didn't need that from him, anyway.

He had little to no happiness to give them.

Agitated and restless, he stood up, pointedly ignoring his injuries. But he couldn't stay still. He paced and paced across the short lengths of the room, trying not to think about what was waiting for him behind the shrouded hood of the Dementors. He didn't regret his decision. He had gotten to the point of his life where he would accept anything – anything! – that would stop him from trying to hurt others. No, he couldn't bear to see another person hurt because of him. It was bad enough that half of the villagers in Fraisdaill Village had survived. The other half was all his to blame. He didn't think that he could even stand to see his parents in the afterlife, especially after all that he had done . . . after so many lives . . .

And Neville . . .

No, he accepted the Dementor's Kiss.

The bitter coldness bit into his skin, eliciting a shiver up his spine. His breath billowed out like steam, a gruesome reminder of the breath that would be snuffed out of him in just a short time. He couldn't stand it. This waiting game. He would much prefer a quicker end, one where he didn't have to be thinking about what exactly he was leaving behind. He tried not to think about it, but he failed miserably. Who was going to watch over Grimmauld's Place? What if Voldemort found about the place? Would he somehow kill everyone in it? What had happened to the sleeping villagers? Knowing the turbulent state of the Ministry, they were bound to do something wicked with them. Harry honestly doubted that they cared about anyone. But after he was gone, would the Order still continue to exist? If they didn't, then who was going to bring down Voldemort? Could Harry really abandon them at the height of the war? Did they even need him?

Harry shook his head.

Growling in frustration, he whipped around at the faint rustle near to him. He looked towards the sound, and his already pale face drained of its last bit of colour.

There, leaning against the shadowed corner of the wall, was a tall, thin figure with short-length black hair standing with his arms crossed, his red eyes peering, amused, from under the hood of his cloak. There was a small curl in his lip. He looked young and human, a far cry from his present counterpart. With a jolt, Harry realised that it was Tom Riddle. The same Tom Riddle that he had seen in his dream, the one that had slayed his parents, judging by how he still had the same handsome features that he had had before he had become Lord Voldemort.

Harry swallowed, hoping against all hope that he wasn't hallucinating. Was he going mad? Was he imagining things? Deciding to take the chance, Harry approached, ready to leap away just in case he tried anything dodgy.

"Are you . . . Tom Riddle?"

His voice echoed in the silence of Askaban, with nothing but the mourning and moans of its occupants and the hoarse breathing of the Dementors to mingle along with it. But Riddle simply stared at him with a look that bordered between arrogance and amusement.

"Why waste your breath asking a question that you already know the answer to?"

Annoyance crossed Harry, but he trudged on. "You're . . ." said Harry slowly. "the part of Voldemort that's inside of me?"

"A startlingly accurate deduction," replied Riddle. "for someone so impetuous."

"What do you want?" demanded Harry. He couldn't deny that a large part of him was unnerved on the fact that Riddle was here. "Why're you here?"

Riddle gave him a long, piercing look. Harry almost felt like he was part of a dog-show, like Riddle was looking through him, instead of at him. But then he remembered that Voldemort had been a Legilimens, and he quickly broke the eye contact.

"The proper question is," said Riddle, his expertly leveled voice cutting into Harry's thoughts. "why did _you_ call me here?"

Harry startled, taken-aback. He turned back to Riddle, looking quite bewildered. He had done nothing to bring him out. In fact, he hadn't been trying to contact anyone at all, let alone Voldemort's Horcrux.

"I didn't."

"Are you certain of that?"

"Yes," said Harry vehemently.

Riddld raised a black brow, looking quite unimpressed that Harry wasn't following along. "Your conscious begs to differ."

"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded Harry.

Riddle looked like he was trying very hard to refrain himself from rolling his eyes, as if Harry was some petty teenager to its parent.

"Ask yourself," said Riddle blandly. "Is it wise to dwell in fruitless conjecture?"

"Ask me if I give a damn."

Riddle raised a brow. "Are you always this insolent?"

"Wrong question," said Harry. Ignoring Riddle, he turned and tossed himself on the bunk bed. Quite honestly, he didn't care what the hell Riddle was here for. He was done with trying to make sense of things that can never be made sense of. Maybe if he pretended that he wasn't here, he would shove off. Harry sprawled on his back with one foot tucked, marveling how he always managed to get himself back in prison all the time. Was it sheer dumb luck? Or was it the fact that he had broken almost every bloody rule in life?

Pure talent, then?

But as he gazed at the ceiling, he tried to thoroughly ignore the existence of the figure in the shadows. That is, until the subject in question crossed his vision. Calculating red eyes met irritated green eyes, and Harry scowled up at the man.

"So you are the one destined to become my downfall," said Riddle distastefully, studying Harry from under his nose. "I must admit, I am rather unimpressed."

Harry scowled.

"You chose me, remember?"

Riddle waved a hand idly. With a furtive look, he turned to walk to the wall where he crossed his arms and leaned against it.

"Unwillingly," he said dully. "Unwittingly."

"You're the reason why my life's all botched up!" said Harry heatedly. "I'd sooner drive a knife through my chest if I knew it'd help."

"You would sacrifice your life in exchange for millions?" Riddle raised an unimpressed brow. "How despicable."

"Funny, isn't it?" said Harry darkly. "Not something you're used to hearing, I suppose."

Riddle waved a hand.

"A life taken is a life robbed, Harry," he replied. "Whether it is your own life or mine, it is a life nevertheless. Others may think sacrificing your own life in exchange for the majority is a considerably noble act. I, however, think it is an act born from cowardice."

Harry tucked his hand behind his head and raised a brow. "But you're all right killing millions for billions, is that right?"

"I never claimed to be a saint."

"No, you're a far cry from one."

"Your impudence will be your downfall."

"And your ego will be yours," Harry shot back.

Riddle looked unperturbed. "Do you really think a fanciful concept such as a saint exists in this world, Harry? Do you really think that such a man is capable of existing?"

"No, but I know the opposite does. And he's here in this room."

"How flattering," remarked Riddle calmly. "Are you referring to your own self or the part of me that is within you?"

"What's the difference?"

Riddle snorted.

"What is a man without sins, Harry?"

"I dunno," he replied dully, his gaze fixed on the mossy ceiling. "You tell me."

"A man without sins is no man at all," explained Riddle. "A man who does not err is no man at all. If every man is destined to be flawed, then surely a man who sins is human. You see, Harry. With all my, as they say, _questionable_ acts, I remain as human as the next man. But it is not _I_ who is as human as _they_ are. But rather, _they_ are as human as _I_ am. Do you understand now?"

"Yeah," he said coldly. "splitting your soul into seven is very human."

"Where is your gratitude?" said Riddle, an eyebrow raised. "Would you be alive had I refrained from it?"

"I'd rather be dead," contended Harry bitterly. "I'm not scared of death, Riddle. I don't go around splitting my soul for the chance at living forever."

Riddle looked unfazed. "Perhaps not with a soul that was never yours to keep," he said calmly, a curl in his lip. "If it was yours, however, you would execute it . . . in due time, of course."

At the implication, Harry shot up in defiance. "I'd never split my soul into seven!" said Harry hotly. "I don't give a damn about my life."

Riddle's lip curled.

"Precisely, Harry," he said mockingly, his red eyes gleaming. "What is preventing you from executing it? If it is death that you desire, then surely there is nothing left worth living for. Then, why not achieve it, Harry? Why not reap the benefits of corruption if the world means nothing to you? You possess both the strength and the will to accomplish it. After all, your soul is just as corrupted as mine. Just as befouled as mine . . . if not more. From the time of my ascension as Lord Voldemort to the time I intruded on your foolish parents in Godric's Hallow, my victim count was not nearly as rampant as yours."

"Yeah," said Harry darkly. "You made up for it through me."

Riddle smirked.

"Ah, still in denial, I see."

"And you're wrong," said Harry, swinging his legs over the bed and rising to his feet. "There _is_ something worth living for."

Riddle sneered. "Humour me."

Harry approached him until they were almost at an arm's length of each other. He looked at him dead in the eyes. Green to red.

"I'll live long enough to take you with me," he asserted quietly. But Riddle simply smirked, almost as if Harry had just done a magic trick of some sorts.

"Together both in this life and the next," he replied mockingly. "How fitting, Harry."

Harry's lip curled. "We'll see."

Without another glance, Harry turned to walk back to the bed before Riddle's voice halted him in his tracks. "Perhaps if you were less insolent," said Riddle icily. "I might have offered you a glimpse at my own insight."

Harry whipped around and shot him a suspicious look. "Why would you help me?" Harry shot back. "You tried to kill me."

"You possess a part of me," replied Riddle dully. "and if you perish, then I perish as well. Perhaps if you were less dim-witted, you might have made that deduction."

Harry glared.

"No, thanks," he replied coolly. "I'd rather Kiss a Dementor."

Once again, Harry tossed himself on the bunk of the bed, a leg tucked, one hand behind his head. He tried to ignore Riddle. He didn't need help from the person responsible for his imprisonment, for the death of his victims and his parents. There was no possible way that he could ever re-assimilate back with society – not with the families of his victims testifying against him. Not with all of his crimes. There was no way. No way that they could all forgive him, even if he _was_ possessed. Even if all but one forgave him, he would still be punished.

Justice, after all, was a purely objective matter.

Or was it?

It was either he died killing Voldemort or he served the rest of his life in prison or in Askaban. He knew that. But try as he may to ignore Riddle, the man seemed annoyingly insistent on his company. But what Harry didn't understand was . . .

Why did Riddle only show himself now?

"Oh, yes," said Riddle offhandedly. "Noble Harry Potter–the Chosen One above all else–abandoning his people. How fitting. You nearly possess all the traits to become a Dark Lord . . . if only you were less forgiving."

"Fat chance," replied Harry darkly.

He had to admit. He was a bit unnerved by Riddle's comment. But he had enough experience with Riddle's future self to know that he only desired a reaction out of Harry. It wasn't necessarily the truth.

Was it?

"Will you accept my assistance?"

"I don't need your help."

Riddle smirked. "Wounded pride, I see."

"Why're you still here?" snapped Harry.

Finally, Riddle moved away from the wall and approached Harry. He looked down at the younger man with a complacent look of his face.

"Every decision you make is leading you closer to the path to darkness," he whispered. "You see, Harry, the part of man that fools like Albus Dumbledore deny so strenuously: the necessity of evil. The two faces in a man, good and evil–they must exist. They cannot exist without the other. They are like the two faces of the moon. A light that beams in the fullest moon but disappears fully behind the shadows at the end of the month."

"Very clever," said Harry sarcastically. "So you admit you have goodness in you? If evil can't exist without good, then you've got it too, is that right?"

"Every man is capable of good deeds."

"I find that hard to believe."

Riddle raised a brow. "Is keeping the purebloods alive not an act of goodness? Is offering mercy to my greatest enemy not an act of goodness? Or perhaps offering your mother a second chance to step aside so that I could claim the life of her only son?"

Harry bolted up in indignance. "You only did it for your own gain," he snapped. "You didn't give a damn about her."

Riddle sneered, his teeth bared like that of a snake. "Pray tell, what could I possibly hope to gain from a filthy Mudblood–?"

"Don't you start about my mother–" Harry warned.

"Ignoring the question, I see," smirked Riddle, looking quite smug. He turned to walk back to the wall and resumed his position.

"You never cared for anyone," said Harry firmly. "That makes all the difference."

Riddle's lip curled. "Oh, yes, and you know better, of course," he said mockingly. "Perhaps, you will find, rather like Dumbledore, that you care, perhaps . . . too much?"

Harry frowned. Whatever he was expecting this time, it was certainly not that response.

"I don't see how–"

"You see, Harry," explained Riddle calmly, "to care for others implies that you are willing to take into account your victims, whereas I value their numbers as irrelevant in terms of meeting my overall goal. The goal is relevant; however many lives are taken is irrelevant. Take yourself as an example. The way your life is structured, the way it prospers, is rather like the lunar cycles. Only, when the light dissipates, when the shadows trounce the light, it will remain dark and haunted . . . as a result of the consequences of the greater good. When you will be forced between exchanging several lives to save others.

"You will find that what I do is no different. But I do not conceal it behind a veil of false truths and fake smiles, Harry. I readily accept my crimes. Perhaps the best type of criminal is one that admits their crimes, rather than pretend that they do not exist," he twirled his wand in idly. "Pity. Fate is, indeed, a cruel mistress."

"I'll never make that decision," asserted Harry firmly.

Riddle smirked.

"You already have," he said, his eyes gleaming with victory.

Harry flinched at the blunt response. Suddenly, an image of the village–of Fraisdaill Village crossed his mind. He could see the bodies of the villagers piled one on top of the other. Limbs tangled with limbs. Those that were dead lumped with the ones that were living. He could smell the burnt flesh of the sleeping villagers. Heard the cracks of broken wood of their homes. He could see the Lethifolds consuming them–digesting them until they were nothing more than a memory.

He had been too late to save them. And Riddle _knew_.

He was using Harry's guilt against him. He was projecting the image purposefully in his head. To get a reaction out of Harry.

He was proving his point. The villagers would have survived if someone had not tried to save them in the first place . . . if the Order hadn't sent the Aurors or even their own members to try to save them. Even if they still would have been asleep, they would have survived regardless. If Harry himself had not tried to save them. If they hadn't intervened, the village would never have been burnt in the first place. By choosing to save them, they had basically killed them. And if the Aurors really were working with Voldemort, then, in retrospect, he had just sent them to sleep. Instead, he made anyone trying to save them suffer for their actions.

And they only had a limited number of Thestrals. They had to leave behind a select few instead of letting the whole villagers burn alive together.

They had to save some, but leave the others. But that was war, wasn't it? That didn't make them criminals . . .

Right?

Harry dimly registered the rustle of robes and the shadow that crossed his vision. He felt numb and sick. Dimly, he looked up into the dark red eyes of his greatest enemy.

"In retrospect, Harry," said Riddle, his red eyes gleaming. " _everyone_ is a criminal. The Order, the Death Eaters, the Ministry. Any individual that presumes authority over the taking of a human life–they are all criminals. Since there is always goodness in others, then killing anyone is, by default, a crime, is it not?"

Harry felt numb.

But they had _saved_ people . . . but by sacrificing others. But that was the consequence of being a flawed human, right? The consequence of being human was that everyone _couldn't_ be saved. That didn't make it wrong. In fact, killing others was very much necessary. And as he looked up at Riddle, his chest boiling with hot fury, he very much affirmed that thought.

Harry shot up to his feet.

"None of it would've happened if you hadn't caused it in the first place," said Harry angrily. "You poisoned the water. You sent the Aurors and the Death Eaters after the villagers. We didn't need to choose between one life or the other if it you weren't for you. You started it."

Riddle waved a hand. "Evil is necessary for good to exist," he explained. "In retrospect, evil is, in fact, a necessary _good_. If I had not sent the Death Eaters after the villagers, would you ever have committed the good deed by saving them? If I had not brought fear and devastation to the world, had I, perhaps hypothetically, never had been born or even risen to become Lord Voldemort, would the saviour of the Wizarding World – would Harry Potter likewise ever have been born?"

"That's a pathetic excuse, Riddle, and you know it."

"Or perhaps if I had not _kindly_ asked your mother to step aside," he continued darkly. "would I ever have been thwarted by her only son?"

"Maybe if you hadn't tried to kill me in the first place," snapped Harry. "None of it would've happened."

Riddle's eyes gleamed. "And yet, if I had not attempted to kill you, I would never have been vanquished at all," he said, straightening from his leaned position. Harry gritted his teeth. "I would have been free to accomplish what I sought from the beginning–to eliminate any trace of Muggle blood within our lines, any filthy blood that taints our future wizards. To finish Salazar Slytherin's noble work. Would you have preferred that instead, Harry?"

Harry's eyes darkened.

He couldn't believe him. He tried so hard to justify his actions – so much that he was willing to commit evil acts in order to balance out the cycle between good and evil. But at what expense?

At the expense of hurting others?

Harry gritted his teeth, trying very hard to keep his voice leveled. "I'm surprised someone as clever as you lacks something as simple as common sense."

"Common sense?" he enquired distastefully. "Common sense as it refers to the views of the majority? Funny, it never occurred to me that the majority was capable of any sense at all."

Harry snorted. He was slowly losing his grip on himself.

"I didn't think so."

"The consequences of every evil action is a good one. For every oppressor, there is rebellion. For every murderer, there is a saviour. For every poison, there is a cure. Then we can logically conclude that every action is a good action, and evil is a necessary good. You must know this, Harry."

"Sounds a bit dodgy, if you ask me."

"Come now, Harry," he said slyly. "the very reason why you are protecting others–why anyone would protect others–is purely for your own self-interest. Something worth gaining, perhaps . . ."

Like the snap of a twig, Harry's frustration reached the height of its tension.

"Yeah," he said furiously, starting to pace around the cell, trying to alleviate his frustration. "going through all that trouble and ending up in a cell in Askaban, with loads of Dementors hanging over my head is definitely for my own self-interest. I know this is news for you, Riddle, but I don't expect anything from anyone. I'm not looking for power or glory or whatever dodgy ideas you've got in that Bludger-sized head of yours–I don't want any of it."

"No," said Riddle dismissively, his voice hardly above a whisper. "but you want something . . ."

Harry stilled in his tracks.

"What–?"

"Something far greater," said Riddle silkily, circling around Harry, whose eyes followed the former like a vulture to its prey. "Something that transcends all boundaries of life and Death."

"Can't you be a bit less _Riddle_ -like?" snapped Harry.

"You want validation. You want it so badly, you feel as though you will bleed to Death with the intensity of it, and who knows the feeling better than myself?"

"Validation from what, exactly?" scoffed Harry, his temper trouncing his wits. "You? You might want to try deflating that head of yours–"

"Validation that you are, in fact, _different_ than I am," replied Riddle, his eyes glinting from under his hood. "Isn't that what you strove to prove Harry? That by the sole reason of saving others that you are the better man."

"It's not a game about who scores best," said Harry loudly, his insides curling with irritation. "it's about what's _right_ –"

"Who dictates what is right or wrong, or is there ever a dictator at all? Is it the people? The majority? But people's views change over time, depending on who rules or the nature of the state at the time. Give them food and shelter, and they worship you like a ruler. Their beliefs fluctuate, and is therefore, never fixed nor reliable. Then who is the dictator of morality? Why should an innocent life not be claimed if there is no fixed rule or punishment? Why should immoral actions be avoided if I can simply bribe or outwit the guards in the prisons? Even Dementors will never administer the Dementor's Kiss to me, since I benefit them in the long run. If we were to leave the matter of morality to unreliable dictators like the people, then there is no reason at all why moral boundaries should exist–"

"So tearing families apart doesn't matter?" interjected Harry coldly. "Hurting and killing others is just spilled water – just something to wipe the floor every night, is it?"

Riddle stopped in his tracks and shot him a cold and haughty look. "I believe that the question was directed at us both."

"If you didn't care what happens to anyone, why've you kept me alive?" demanded Harry. "Why haven't you killed me yet? What's one more body to fill a graveyard?"

"You proved your worth . . . Obviously."

Harry froze. Suspicion undulated under his skin. He wasn't entirely sure what Riddle had meant by that statement. Was he talking about Harry's position as Voldemort's personal "assassin"? Was he somehow referring to what happened at the village? But how could he know what happened to the villagers? He was still the Riddle that had murdered his parents, the part of him that had fused with Harry's soul. He wasn't Voldemort . . . yet. Did he somehow remember what Harry remembered? Did they both share the same memories, perhaps?

He decided to test him out.

"You tried to kill me for trying to save the villagers," said Harry slowly, partly suspicious, partly thoughtful.

"I did."

So they _did_ share the same memories, Harry mused. But did that mean that _he_ could see Voldemort's memories? Was that what the ghostly man Harry had met near Grimmauld's Place had tried to tell him?

Harry continued carefully, as if treading on needles.

"And again for helping the Order."

Riddle straightened and started to pace around the cell, still exuding the same aura of calmness and confidence. Nothing that Harry said seemed to faze him. In fact, if anything, it only seemed to amuse him and further inflate his already inflated ego. Even though, he looked a tad impatient now, pacing to and fro.

"You are deluded by the illusion that you are delaying my plans when you are, in fact, _aiding_ me in my relentless pursuits to accomplish my goals. You believe that you are saving others, but you are, in fact, bringing more destruction – more pain onto those of whom you try to save. With all your impulsivity, you reacted just as I predicted. And in doing so, you paved the path for Dumbledore's demise."

Harry suddenly felt a tight constrain in his chest, as if someone had dropped an anvil onto his diaphragm, causing him to inhale sharply.

"What are you talking about?" he said, unsettled. His heart hammered in his chest. "What demise?"

But Riddle didn't seem to hear him. As if another world, he paced and paced across the cell, to and fro, not unlike a pendulum.

"Destiny can be altered, changed, adjusted, like a cog in a timepiece," he muttered, almost to himself. "Remove the cog, and time stops. Keep it, and time churns and twists. It is the designer of the timepiece that decides what the fate of time will be, the designer which must be intelligent and puissant enough to concoct it, all characteristics of which I, myself, possess."

"You're going to change destiny?" said Harry, his words spilling like water. "Is that your plan?"

"Do you know how Prophecies are concocted, Harry?"

Harry felt as though he had lost all of his blood, rendering his mind thoroughly incapable of thought. There was no _way_ –Riddle couldn't possibly be thinking–destiny couldn't be _changed_. That was impossible. There was no "what ifs" about destiny. Whatever was simply _was_. But then . . . a horrible thought occurred to him. But no. Destiny _could_ be changed. Time Turners were capable of reversing time, and altering what was already destined. But didn't that mean that the one altered was the one destined? But all of the Time Turners were destroyed, weren't they? What the hell was Riddle planning? Harry's convoluted thoughts echoed through his words.

"I don't–" started Harry, his breath hitched. "you're not seriously thinking about–you're _mad_ –"

"Destiny," breathed Riddle, entranced in his inner euphoria. "Destiny is a thief, very much intent on robbing the lives of its mortal victims. And what better way to alter destiny than it is to trounce the very reason for its existence, the one with the knowledge and power to know when an individual will perish at any given moment, one omniscient in his essence: Death."

Harry bolted up to his feet. "You're mad!" he said indignantly, his face white and disturbed. "You can't change destiny, much less a Prophecy!"

"Can't I, Harry?" breathed Riddle, a mad glint in his eyes. "When was the last time you visited the Department of Mysteries?"

"No," Harry shook his head, his mind in denial, his hands trembling. "You're mad– _barking_ mad."

"Why, it's only just started," said Riddle, almost mockingly. "and it's all thanks to you, Harry, my ever-loyal follower, for distracting the Order long enough to enable the attack on Diagon Alley."

Harry's breath quickened, his lips felt dry and chapped. There was an attack on Diagon Alley? But how could he have known that? No, Riddle was lying. Why hadn't anyone mentioned it? And who was involved – the Death Eaters or the Aurors? And if so, that must've meant that the Ministry had blamed the Order for the attacks like they had done yesterday. If what Riddle was saying was true, then Harry's trip to Askaban had basically been for nothing. Had the Ministry convicted the members of the Order for their so-called crimes? Did they somehow separate them or kill them? Had Harry's efforts to save them been for nothing? Riddle must have read his mind because Harry vaguely registered dark robes near his vision, but he didn't look up.

"Still intent on killing me?" smirked Riddle.

Harry gritted his teeth. Oh, he would do more– _much_ more than just kill him. He would rip his bloody limbs apart and feed them to the dogs. That was how fed up he was with Riddle's lies.

"Rot in hell," snapped Harry. "See if I care."

Riddle's eyes gleamed. "You will join me, of course," he said icily, his voice barely above a whisper. "Time is against you, Harry. As time passes, you are slowly shaping your true self. Your true core–your essence. You are slowly giving into my wisdom, slowly accepting that the world is just as corrupt, if not more, than I am."

"It's all a matter of perspective," said Harry firmly. "You only see what you want to see, which isn't always true."

"That, objectively, every action is a good action, and that evil is a necessary good. You understand now, Harry. Killing yourself, killing me, letting me live, letting yourself live–they are all evil deeds. You will always choose the path to destruction. That is your fate," whispered Riddle, stepping to Harry. "You see . . . you are no different than I am. Perhaps it is not the Dark Lord living inside of you, Harry. Perhaps it is you, yourself, that is the Dark Lord."

Trembling with fury, Harry felt something menacing inside of him snap. The ensemble of emotions all came flooding back to him like the roar of the waves in the ocean. His trip to the Ministry, his fight with Voldemort, his wasted trip to Askaban had all been for nothing. His efforts to stop Voldemort had actually been to _help_ him.

Once again, he had fallen right into Voldemort's trap.

"Shut up!" bellowed Harry, his voice almost shattering the dungeons walls, his chest boiling with rage. "Get out of my head!"

And almost like a man breathing his final breath, the image of Tom Riddle effaced. It was almost as if he had never appeared at all. Harry stood there, breathing heavily, his mind very much vacant of reasoning. There were no footsteps left behind. No imprints from where he had been leaning against the wall. But he had been there. A witness could vouch for that. He was real. He had been standing there, just underneath the shadows.

But only Harry had known that.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Gordon Walter stalked down the halls of the Department of Mysteries, his annoyance trouncing his wits. He had just been intending to return home to his wife and children, only to be called back, even though he had already served the necessary time. As an Unspeakable, the others had claimed that it was important, and that he was wanted back in the study of Dark creatures in the Restricted Area of the Department of Mysteries. He had wanted so much to snap at them, as stressed as he was from an overload of work, but he was a man of integrity.

So he held his tongue, being the ever-accommodating person that he was.

Exhaling a shimmer of his stress, he continued down the hall, past the large fountain of Amortentia and halted at a wall with a large, glass-stained picture of a dragon on it. He took his wand out of his pocket, causing the dragon to growl menacingly at him. But he was no stranger to this. He knew that the dragon would start breathing fire if he was an imposter. But as soon as he touched his wand to the wall, the dragon bared its teeth, batted its wings, and went soaring out of the picture. Glancing around warily, Gordon stepped into the picture and down the rickety trail of the Restricted Area.

As soon as he stepped through, the ground sank like goo, leaving large blotches of footsteps behind, ready to swallow anyone who dared to step out of line. The hall was dark with spider web hangings over the ceiling. An incessant banging sound was coming from one of the skeletons inside one of the aloft doorways. There was a strange coldness in the air, almost like Gordon was swallowed by a Dementor. He hated this place, and he hated this job. But nevertheless, he quickly continued down the hall, and reached his destination.

Without another glance, he knocked exactly four times before he entered the room. But as he did, his face drained of all colour at the inner dwellings of the room.

"Good evening," said a dull and deep voice.

To his horror, there was a shaggy-haired man dressed in purple robes standing against a large table with a steaming cauldron on top. There were several phials scattered throughout the table, along with Potion ingredients like Billywig sting slime, Doxy venom, and a Salamander brain. But what caught his attention, however, was the tall, hoarse breath that was drenching the room with coldness, a coldness that didn't seem to affect the shaggy, blonde-haired man. The Dementor in question was encased in a rectangular glass box, shackled to the wall by the wrist. In front of it, however, were at least three bodies, who looked seemingly asleep, lying on stretchers side-by-side.

Gordon, stricken and trembling from head to toes, looked up at the sign of movement. At the back, near the cabinets of phials and jars, there were three purple-robed man that didn't seem to give a hoot who the shaggy-haired was. They looked engrossed in their work.

"B-but–" said Gordon, his voice cracking with trepidation. "you were supposed to be in Numerngard."

But the shabby-haired man continued to tap the pestle against the mortar, thoroughly ignoring Gordon's existence.

"Yes, that was the plan, unfortunately."

"How did you escape?" demanded Gordon, his face pale with fear, his hand trembling around his wand. "What are you doing here?"

But the man didn't answer. He simply shot him a look that bordered between indifference and annoyance and turned his back to him. Gordon looked around, trying desperately to find an answer to this madness. His heart was restless. This couldn't possibly real. Surely he was dreaming. Gellert Grindewald was supposed to be locked in Numerngard, supposedly the most secure prison in all of the Wizarding World. What was he doing here? And how did he get here? Gordon could hardly stifle his trembling, which had little to do with the frosty room, and more to do with the fact that the elder man had just swept past him to a cauldron on the nearby table, sending a rush of chill air biting into his skin.

"That is beside the matter," Grindewald waved him off, as if he was a petty fly swooping around his nose. "You have proven to be a worthless distraction."

"Me?" Gordon said in astonishment. "I beg your pardon, but it is you that is unauthorised to be here. Only an Unspeakable is permitted–"

"To stop speaking?" he replied dryly. He started to rummage through the cupboards, fishing for something. "I dare say, that would save you a few breaths."

Gordon gulped.

Grindewald neared him, and Gordon resisted the urge to flinch away. Every word, every gesture, sent him quivering like a frightened cat with its hair on ends. But he didn't want to give the impression of disapproval lest the man try to 'convince' him using less ideal methods. But the man didn't seem to want anything from him. Instead, he simply swept past him towards the glass box containing the Dementor to his side. As he did, Gordon trounced the lingering affects of the creature and regained a modicum of his strength. On wary feet, he approached the glass case, thoroughly studying the wretched creature.

"Why is this here?" demanded Gordon, his voice amplifying. His wits returned to him like a cat to its owner. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Relax, my good man," said Grindewald, clapping the man on the shoulder. Though there wasn't the slightest hint of pleasantness in his tone. "We are only attempting to resuscitate these victims placed under an enchanted sleep."

Gordon scoffed loudly, almost choking on his saliva. "Oh, pray tell. What could they possibly benefit from a nasty creature like this?"

Grindewald's lip curled.

"Everything."

"What–?"

"Shall I explain?" said Grindewald, a hint of a threat in his tone. Gordon looked at him, apprehension undulating under his skin. The man's eyes, though glinting with the thrill of knowledge and power, looked like they carried an ensemble of all the darkest pits of humanity, as if he was projecting onto others what he, himself, had became, as a result of every corrupt thing in the world.

Terrified on the inside, Gordon forced a brief nod. He didn't want to know what happened if he refused, and he was too far from the door to try for a furtive escape.

"It begins and ends, of course, with this creature here," he muttered, with a rather wistful tone, as if the years of imprisonment had robbed him from an animalistic fascination with knowledge. "I'm sure you know what this creature is, Mr.–"

"Walter," said Gordon stiffly. "And of course I know what it is, I've worked with it long enough–"

"Ah, splendid research, I presume," nodded Grindewald. "of, in my opinion, one of the most fascinating creatures to ever walk this Earth."

Gordon paused, his eyes drifting across the cloak-like creature.

"I dare say, they _do_ provide a rather interesting enquiry," he maundered, with clear distaste in his tongue. "but fascinating–? Nasty, more like it. Hideous creatures. Inhumane–"

"Ah," breathed Grindewald, a mad glint in his eyes. "there's the silver lining." Intimidated, Gordon shot him a wary look.

"Pardon?"

"Dementors are vital to understand the nature of the human soul, and in doing so, offers insight into the path to amortality."

"Amortality?" he demanded. "What sort of madness–?"

"Non-beings. Dementors. Poltergeists. Neither living nor dead. Never born, never to die. Never to see the afterlife," said Grindewald, a wistful look on his face. "Ah, but what a wonder that is."

Gordon felt as though the world had crumbled from right into his feet. His head was spinning, trying to grasp at loose strings. Despite all of his experience studying Dementors, he couldn't understand a single word that the man was saying.

"What are you–?"

But much to Gordon's revulsion, Grindewald steered him by the shoulders until they were right above the sleeping bodies on the stretchers.

"Don't you see, Mr. Walter? These people are trapped in a deathlike sleep. Their consciousness still lives on, but it is sealed in the world of dreams. In this life, they have essentially departed. And only by killing them or splitting their soul can they ever truly become conscious again."

"Splitting their souls?" enquired Gordon, his voice quivering. "You don't mean–?" But Grindewald removed his hand and proceeded to pace around the room.

"Rather like a Horcrux, Mr. Walter," explained Grindewald, pacing up and down the room. "The act of splitting the soul is defined by an immeasurable happiness in the distraught of others. Hence, in order to possess a soul, one must feel pleasure and happiness. That is what makes us human. For example, we all know that, when a Kiss by a Dementor is administered, the victim lives on–soulless. The Dementor feeds on happiness. It extracts it until the victim is left with nothing more than a hollow shell, rendering it incapable of thought or free will. Instead, the victim is left to relive their worst fears–in other words, they are soulless without happiness."

"So . . ." swallowed Gordon, his strained voice betraying his fear. "the soul is defined by pleasure–by happiness?"

Grindewald nodded. "By _emotion_. Or rather, the intensity of emotions. To remove one emotion will cause a cascade of others. Sadness, for example, cannot exist without happiness or vice versa. To make a human a human, it is vital that all the emotions are present."

"But depression–?" interjected Gordon.

"–is defined as a _lack_ of happiness, not sadness in its purest form. In other words, when the source of happiness is robbed from you, sadness is the result. Emotions are a spectrum, relative to its opposite."

But with all of his years as an Unspeakable, Gordon couldn't stay silent. "But animals also have emotions," he argued. "Why is that Dementors do not feel their emotions?"

If Grindewald felt any irritation towards questions, he certainly didn't show it. From beside him, Gordon could hear the bubbles of the cauldron nearby, the steam drifting out like vapor. He could see his breath flow out in wisps, reassuring him that he was still alive, as the formidable figure of Grindewald paced and paced in front of him.

"Animals are not targeted by Dementors since they are incapable of complex emotions; they have instinctual emotions, but they can never possess a complex emotion like happiness. One would require a sound mind and depth in thought in order to understand happiness. For example, to look at a loved ones as a symbol of what they represent to you. First, you must understand that person, communicate with it, find common interests, before establishing this emotion, all of which require the ability to rationalise or sympathise, neither of which animals are capable of doing."

In the back, the _clang_ of phials became almost an otherworldly distraction in Gordon's ears. He was trying to gauge what Grindewald's reasoning, but he didn't understand a single word of it.

"Now, onto the subject of resuscitating these sleeping victims," began Grindewald again. "Let's assume for the sake of argument that only by dying, and living in the afterlife, is one truly immortal. This life is finite while the next is infinite. And since a dead person is defined as a soulless being, then logically, by establishing a half-soul, one that tethers between Death and life, one can get the best in both worlds. Neither mortal nor immortal . . . An amortal being, in other words. Not unlike Dementors."

"There you go again," said Gordon, his frustration swelling like a sore in his mouth. But his sweaty hands betrayed his fear. "Amortality?"

"A being that meets all the conditions of a non-being: never dying, never sleeping. Only eating and living. All of which Dementors are. Therefore, logically, to make a mortal into a non-mortal is to make a being like a Dementor: living but incomplete – thereby overriding their humanity, in other words."

Gordon's breath hitched in his throat. "Overriding their humanity?" he said in disbelief. "You couldn't possibly be thinking–?"

"What are Dementors, Mr. Walter? They are beings that thrive on instinct. They live an incomplete life with only their fears and their evil deeds to accompany them. But what makes them whole again? What is one thing that they seek above all other things? Goodness. Happiness. The one emotion which they are missing to make them a complete being – to make them whole again. This enables them to survive. Without anything to feed on, without happiness, their numbers dwindle. Three becomes two, two becomes one, in other words. This process of collecting the other half of one's self is the sole reason why they are amortal. And this is the principle that will be applied tonight."

Gordon paused, his head bulging with thought. It almost felt like someone had rammed a Bludger into his head, causing his thoughts to become a muddle of confusion. His hands and face felt like stone with the cold air of the room, but the elderly man didn't seem to feel it. In fact, Gordon genuinely wondered if he was, in fact, human at all. But so engrossed in his thoughts, the elderly man continued to pace around the room, his tousled hair in his face, his hands behind his back, his gaze pinned on the marble tiles that aligned the floor.

"So . . ." began Gordon slowly. "you intend to split their souls?"

Grindewald paused in his pacing and lifted his head, a curl in his lip.

"Not split," he said flatly. "but _erase_ one-half of the soul."

Gordon's blood drained from his face. "But that's preposterous," he sputtered. "That's never been done before. How do you intend to erase it?"

Grindewald waved a hand idly.

"By extracting happiness, which can be done through the flesh of the Dementor and a tablespoon of Doxy venom, which in itself, is notorious for keeping its victim awake for a long period of time. Once the concoction passes through the victim's mouth, it will inherit all the traits and characteristics of a Dementor. In other words, what happiness is left will be snuffed out, like a beam in a lantern."

Despite the absurdness of the experiment, Gordon couldn't deny the brilliancy of the theory. He could follow his reasoning. Dementors were known to exude an air of coldness whenever they entered the room, stripping all memories of happiness from anyone that was nearby. When consumed, the Dementor remains would destroy these thoughts or any shred of happiness within the individual. It would leave enough emotions to keep one-half of the soul, the less intense emotions like tranquillity or melancholy. And the Doxy venom, which was commonly used in the Wiggenweld Potion, was an ingredient used to keep or awaken victims placed in an enchanted sleep, and therefore, giving the illusion of living indefinitely.

After all, a person that couldn't become unconscious couldn't die – ever. Not unless they were actually killed.

"You're mad!" cried Gordon, his face ghost-like.

"To render a being that lacks a certain emotion, it can no longer human, and therefore, no longer mortal. In other words, it is partially alive, but not human. This process, as you will see, involves a half-soul being."

"So," swallowed Gordon. "the idea of meeting these requirements involve making humans . . . non-human? Non-mortals, in other words?"

"Rather like the act of splitting one's soul to fashion a Horcrux, yes," affirmed Grindewald. "These individuals are not, therefore, human. Not until they revert back to their original state, when all of their Horcruxes are destroyed: a mortal being, in other words."

Gordon tensed, more out of outrage than fear. He doubted very much that this process would benefit them; in fact, it would very much affect the people which they try to suck the happiness out of. It would be like administering the Dementor's Kiss to others, only it would be humans that would administer it, leaving their victims with nothing more than a hollow shell.

"This isn't about the sleeping bodies, is it?" said Gordon, his voice hoarse with horror. "This isn't about helping others?"

"No," stated Grindewald, his hands tucked into the pockets of his robes. "this is about experimenting–or knowledge, in laymen terms."

"Knowledge at the expense of the lives of others?" barked Gordon, outraged. "My dear man, this is purely unethical–!"

"It is not unethical," said Grindewald nonchalantly. "It is for the greater good. I assure you, they will recover. It will neither harm them nor affect their daily lives."

"But surely it can spread?"

"Through injection or blood-to-blood contact, yes. It will be known as the Living Dead sickness, in which the victims, rather like victims of the Dementor's Kiss, will be stuck in a Limbo state and will be refrained from dying or entering the afterlife."

Despite the bitter coldness of the room, Gordon's face and neck heated with indignation. He wiped the sweat off of his face, his chest puffing out, his eyes bulging in horror at what utter madness he was hearing.

"Why, this is–this is . . . _vile_ ," he sputtered, his hands trembling. "Cruel–! Positively repulsive! You have the audacity to go forth with this? Have you no sense, my good man? To make a person less human– _good God_!"

Grindewald looked unperturbed, though the twitch of a vein in his head suggested that he was getting very much irritated.

"It is necessary for the greater good."

"Greater good?" roared Gordon, looking a bit deranged. "What madness is this! Rendering one incapable of happiness–? Good Lord!"

"I assure you, my good man," said Grindewald, unfazed. "They are not without happiness. Rather like Dementors, they will need to _obtain_ happiness in order to remain fully human."

Gordon's eyes felt ready to fall out of eye sockets. Somehow, his heart had reached his head, causing a drumming noise in his ears.

"Fully human?"

"They are only partially human for now. But as they venture to collect happiness from others, they will fill in that emptiness, sort of speak. As long as they continue this process, they will remain human, but under certain conditions and not without consequences."

"But–But . . ." spluttered Gordon. "taking the happiness of others?"

Grindewald nodded. "Rather like a Dementor, Mr. Walter."

"Then . . ." started Gordon, a hollow feeling at his insides. "it must be done . . . through a Kiss?"

"Shall I demonstrate?" offered Grindewald. With a hint of hesitance, Gordon nodded. The former drew out his wand and pointed it at the cabinet near the back, causing the other Unspeakables to jolt and step back. The cabinets shifted to the side, showing a narrow, hidden doorway from behind it. Without glancing back, Grindewald beckoned him through the door. Feeling as though the world would swallow him under, Gordon accompanied the man, his knees trembling like jelly.

But as they entered the room, Gordon's heart leapt to his throat. They were in a large, dark rectangular room that still exuded the icy aura of a Dementor, but there was no such creature in sight. But in the center, there was a large glass case, almost like a room within the room, which seemed to contain a person inside of it. A person – a man! Gordon realised in horror – who was moaning in misery and hugging his stomach, his feet flailing out like that of an infant. He didn't seem to see them. Gordon supposed that the glass was a one-way see-through. He could see the man, but he doubted that the man could see him.

But Gordon hardly registered the thump of the footsteps right near him, signaling Grindewald's presence. His horrified gaze was sweeping across the man, his face draining of all colour. The man was deathly pale with large black blotches littered across his skin. His lips and fingernails were pitch black. His skin was shedding, almost like the ends of the cloak of a Dementor. Gordon instinctively knew that the blackness of the skin would spread until it reached all across his body. The bitter coldness seemed to have come from him. Gordon wondered if this was one of the men that had been placed under an enchanted sleep by an overdose of the Draught of Living Death.

But Grindewald spoke, his voice drumming through Gordon's trance.

"This man has ardently refused to cater to his instinctual needs. He has repressed himself for a total of fifty-eight hours. If he continues to delay the inevitable, he will find himself succumbing to the same bouts of insanity as a victim under the Cruciatus Curse. It is imperative that he sustains himself, and that could only be done through the happiness of others."

As if at a distance, the young man's moaning amplified, his black nails clawing across his shedding skin. His breaths were swirling out of him like a wisp of his misery was made apparent. But suddenly, Grindewald snapped his fingers, and a droning noise reached Gordon's ears. He looked up and a platform emerged from the floor in front of the man. On top of the levitated platform was a chair that had a person – a woman from the Ministry Detention Area! Gordon realised – chained in it.

"Good God!" he breathed, knowing what Grindewald was going to do. "This is perfectly–unruly–despicable–"

The woman was sobbing almost hysterically. But the younger man looked up with an almost animalistic hungry look in his eyes. But he clenched his fists and turned away. It was clear that he was trying hard to refrain himself from leaping onto her–from draining her happiness. He still had a hint of humanity, but it was clear that it was fading fast.

"As you can see," explained Grindewald, with the same wistful tone as earlier. "our morality trounces our innate ability to survive, to nourish. To overcome this dilemma, we revert back to our primary instinct: the animalistic instinct to thrive no matter the consequences. It is instinct that drives our need to survive. Moral boundaries are irrelevant."

Gordon swallowed. He couldn't speak. He felt like he was wrapped in a nightmare of his own doings. The woman's sobbing seemed to be an echo of how he felt on the inside. She leaned back as far as she could in the chair, the chains clinging around her wrists. The man, too, tried to shuffle away. He closed his eyes, his determination trouncing his instinct to feed. But Grindewald waved his hand and brought the woman's chair closer to the Dementor-like man.

And that gesture broke the man's resolve.

With a wild cry, he sprung to his knees, wrapped his hands around the woman's neck, and roughly pressed his lips to hers, and freed her of her soul. As the woman fell limp, her head bobbing, the man recoiled, as if stung. He stumbled back against the wall where he collapsed, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with horror. He had apparently regained his wits. With a furious cry, he fisted his hair and elicited a howl of anguish at what he had done to the woman. Despite how young he was, he seemed to know what had happened to him, and how severe a Dementor's Kiss was.

Gordon vaguely registered being led back to the original room, feeling like his own soul had just been ripped out of him. He was so furious that he completely forgot who he was talking to.

"This–This is . . . _unacceptable_!" spluttered Gordon, his head boiling with fury. "Utterly despicable! I will not allow this to continue."

Grindewald raised a brow. "You will keep these people asleep under your care, wasting time and money keeping them alive while others scrap their vaults to keep their families properly nourished?"

"I–I–"

"Or perhaps continuing to fund the prisons to keep conniving individuals alive?" continued Grindewald, an underlying threat in his tone.

"My good _Sir_ ," shouted Gordon, astonished. "Prisons are necessary in a civilized society."

"Only to fools in bowled hats and fat stomachs protruding out of the clasps of their robes," he said distastefully. "Those who assume that they are safe under their comforters while the world protrudes its claw amongst the shadows."

"My dear man," Gordon pumped his chest out in outrage. "They are better off dead! To bar them from Death, to bar them from the afterlife – why, it is a hope that people cling to – !"

"Hope is a fickle thing," said Grindewald impassively. "It drifts along the shore and retracts, not unlike the fury of a wave in the ocean."

"There are those who live hoping, _dreaming_ of seeing their loved ones in the afterlife. Those who live in suffering, you are barring them from Death! This is cruelty beyond measure!"

Grindewald shot him an impatient but irritated look before he turned to lean across the wall, twirling his wand in idle amusement.

"Suffering is something which one brings to his or herself, not what is objectively true. It differs from person to person. You will find that, as much as humanity continues to believe in such a concept, the more life is meaningless."

"Suffering proves that you can empathise," said Gordon. "That you can _love_ –"

"And this is precisely the problem," he replied. "Suffering is brought by stifling one's pleasures, ambitions, desires. But by destroying these boundaries, these moral restrictions, one can experience life in its true form – boundless pleasure. Who will wish for Death, then? Only those who live in suffering wish for Death."

"Death is inevitable," argued Gordon. "They are suffering by continuing to live–"

"But they will never grow ill, never become unconscious, never sleep as a consequence of possessing only half a soul. Like Dementors, they cannot die. But unlike Dementors, they can, of course, be killed."

"But–the afterlife–"

Grindewald's lip twisted into a cruel smile. "A fitting punishment for corruption, don't you agree?"

"Injustice – purely unthinkable!" he stomped to the door, determined to end this bout of mischief, only to find it bolted shut from the inside. "I swear on Merlin's grave that I will report this at once."

"To whom will you report?" enquired Grindewald. But Gordon whipped around at the mocking hint in his tone.

"The Aurors! The Minister of Magic!" cried Gordon. "Why, I'll be damned if I'll allow this to continue." But Grindewald gave him almost a regretful look.

"Then you will find that your hospitality will no longer be needed here," he said, his lip curled. "It is quite shame, we could have been great companions, you and I. Crabbe. Goyle, put an end to this man's misery."

"Yes, Minister," they said.

Gordon suddenly found himself at the feet of two of the three purple-robed figures that had been silently working in the back, but he froze at the next statement. Gordon's face drained of all colour, feeling a wave of nausea in his insides. He looked up at the smirking elderly man with his eyes bulging out of his sockets.

"Minister?" he breathed, horrified.

But before he could consider the matter, he felt a sharp object jab into his head, and he fell face-forward and knew the world no more.

* * *

A/N: I don't know if I should be concerned that my natural voice is Voldemort. I honestly didn't know how dark and loaded this chapter was, but whatever . . .

This is almost turning out to be a Harry/Voldemort fic (don't worry, I don't do slash).

Yes, I know that an Amortal being was never alive in the first place nor can they ever die. But that's just it. It's about not making humans _less_ humans. It's about making them completely _non_ -human. You can't be human if you're Amortal. In order to be fully human, you need a _full_ -functioning soul. A half-soul doesn't have that, then by definition, it is no longer human. It has to be mortal to be human. Therefore, a person with a half-soul is no longer human, it's just a _completely_ different being. Starting from that point onward, when half of the soul is erased, it is a completely different being and therefore, it was never _living_ in the first place.

The way JK established the concept (if I'm not wrong), you need to have a _full_ soul in order to be _alive_. But a half-soul is basically just half-dead, just alive enough to eat and breathe.

Sorry, I just love the concept of Dementors, and I like how JK established the concept of the soul. I wanted to mess around with it. No one seems to use it much.

Oh, and the Doxy venom was something I made up. It's just not actually used as an ingredient in the Canon universe.

Reviews welcome.


	17. Chapter 17: Diagon Alley

Agitated, Ron paced and paced across the suffocating strait of the dungeons, his mind racing. The Death Eaters had called for an important meeting today where all of the members were required to attend, with Voldemort himself leading it, which was fueled his anxiety in the first place. Judging by the occasional murmur of the Death Eaters, Voldemort suspected one or many of the members to be traitors, and he knew, without doubt, that the "Dark Lord" suspected him above all else. He needed to find his dad soon. If what Harry had said was true, his dad was sick. And he needed help, and soon.

But Ron didn't have a wand on him.

Around him, the moaning and pleading of the imprisoned clawed at his heart. How could he possibly leave them here, wasted and begging while he returned to the comfort of his family? Hell, how could he even leave Harry here? No wonder Harry had changed so much. With a dark and musty place like this, what sane person _wouldn't_ succumb to insanity? But where _was_ Harry, anyway? Was he in trouble? Ron remembered leaving him to deal with Voldemort . . . then a horrifying thought crossed him.

With Voldemort still here, did that mean . . .

Was Harry– _dead_?

But no, that didn't make sense. Harry was famous both amongst the ranks of the Death Eaters as well as the Order of the Phoenix. No, he would've heard if Harry was in trouble, or even . . . outright dying.

Ron shook his head. He didn't want to think about it.

Breathing deeply, he stowed painful thoughts of Hermione and his kids away and turned to tread deeper into the dungeons, his eyes skittering quickly for any vacant cell. He didn't want to glance too hard at the prisoners, but he did catch glimpses every now and then: of sunken eyes, sallow and rotting skin, people clawing at their heads, some screaming their vocal cords dry. Most of them were middle-aged men, but he did occasionally catch a glimpse of a woman. But to his relief, there were no children.

But his dad . . . Did his dad somehow share the same distraught disposition as the prisoners? The thought made him feel nauseous, and a prickling feeling settled into his lungs. That _bastard_ . . . He would rip that imposter apart for what he had done, if he so much as touched his dad!

Ron looked around, his searching slowly hastening–restless and desperate. He remembered, Harry had said that his father was under the Invisibility Cloak. He started hurling doors open, sticking his head for quick peeks, vaguely avoiding the Dementors in his tracks. He didn't want to know, but at the same time, he yearned to know. Finally, he reached the end of the dungeons far off from the Dementors and clicked it open. With trepidation and apprehension in his gait, some instinctual feeling told him that he had arrived.

Slowly, he approached, his heart leaping to his throat in fearful anticipation. Harry hadn't wanted to tell him what had happened to his father since Ron had needed to concentrate on saving the Order. That meant that it must've bad–horrible! Sinking to his knees, Ron reached a hand out. And it collided with something. Swallowing, his teeth clenched so hard that it hurt, he ripped the Invisibility Cloak off of the sprawled figure on the ground, and his heart lurched like a hoard of sea slugs.

"Dad?" he breathed, horrified.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

 _Gellert Grindewald becomes Minister of Magic!_

 _Briand Highwind_

 _The previously appointed Minister of Magic, also known as the now resigned Head of the Auror Department, Rufus Scrimgeour, has announced his resignation last night, citing "personal troubles" and "family matters" as reason for this abrupt shift. This was announced last week, following the arrest of Harry Potter, also known as the Boy-Who-Lived or You-Know-Who's second in command (see pg. 4)._

 _Gellert Grindewald, known for his infamous defeat at the hands of Albus Dumbledore in the First Wizarding War, announced his succession to the public last night following the massive outbreak of, what is formally known, as the Living Dead sickness, which is claimed by formal Ministry officials as a disease caused by Muggles, but can be transmitted by blood-to-blood contact as well as injection. This sickness causes the victims to share the characteristics and traits of the Dementor as well as the ability to administer the most potent and dreaded Dementor's Kiss. For more information on how to detect these individuals, see the pamphlet attached._

 _The outbreak of the disease was claimed to have started following the recent attack on Fraisdaill Village (see pg. 3). According to the Head of the Auror Department, Gawain Robards, a nefarious group known as the Order of the Phoenix, founded by the revered Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Albus Wulfric Dumbledore, claimed responsibility for poisoning the water with Draught of Living Death, a concoction which is widely known for causing permanent sleep if the dose is large enough. "By the time we arrived at the scene," said the Head Auror, Gawain Robards, "the entire village had already fallen dormant, the only survivors were the ones inflicting physical harm to both themselves and others and were immediately transferred to the Mental Ward in St. Mungos." The Aurors later investigated the Order Headquarters and found a stash of phials containing that the Draught of Living Death, most of which were confiscated for further investigation._

 _The rest of these victims, mainly the survivors, were transferred to the Department of Mysteries for further research on how to resuscitate these victims. After much deliberation, Gellert Grindewald, who was once renowned for his work as an Unspeakable, was called to assist the matter by Rufus Scrimgeour. The effort proved to be a success, and the victims were resuscitated and sent to re-assimiliate back with society with no consequences at all. This is, indeed, proof that even the worst of us are capable of redemption. Grindewald was even deemed by former Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, as a "devastatingly misunderstood" figure, and that the people "ought to be glad" that the new Minister is a "honest" and "determined" man. We, the Daily Prophet Correspondents, congratulate Gellert Grindewald on his inauguration._

 _Next page: Attack on Diagon Alley: is the Order of the Phoenix responsible?_

Incensed, Ginny slammed the paper on the scratched wooden surface of the table, trying to quell the feeling of disgust twisting in her guts. How could anyone possibly believe the perfidy of these claims? Sure, there was no evidence over who or what had poisoned the water in Fraisdaill Village with the Draught of Living Death or who had been responsible for burning it since there was no witnesses save for the 'accused,' but that didn't mean they had any basis for blaming the "nefarious" Order. Much less Dumbledore. Surely after incarcerating Grindewald, the next most dangerous man after Tom Riddle, he had proven his probity. But no, people now seemed to be sympathising with Grindewald rather than against him. They seemed so desperate for a strong and level-headed ruler that they actually bought into all the rubbish that Grindewald spouted about being a "redeemed man."

Hanging her head in her hands, she expelled a wisp of her stress, although the weight was unbearable. Just last week, her brother, Ron, and her father had been announced missing, or, as Dumbledore had told them, that Harry had ensured that they were still alive, but they still hadn't arrived. And with Harry threatened to receive the Dementor's Kiss, there was no way of knowing just what sort of rigmarole that her father and brother had induced just by being with Voldemort. There was no doubt where they were, and every second, every minute, that they were gone sent the quivers undulating under her skin. Her family was in trouble, and she had no way of contacting them. She didn't even have the strength to comfort her utterly distraught mother. Much less . . . Hannah. It had been difficult to divulge to the tender Hufflepuff just what had happened to her husband and who exactly was involved . . . Ginny hadn't checked up on the girl since Dumbledore had privately cornered her.

Ginny shook her head. She didn't want to think about _that_. It was bad enough hearing it last week. Right now, she needed to focus on how to get Ron and her father back, but with Harry's arrest . . . there was no way of knowing where they were. Heaving a sigh, she looked around. She was sitting in a dim corner of the Leaky Cauldron with her hands curled around a mug of butterbeer, on watch for any suspicious backstabbers. Ever since the attack last week, the bustle of Diagon Alley had mitigated dramatically as if someone had invited a hoard of Dementors in. There had been no evidence to who was responsible, though Dumbledore suspected that it was the Aurors since Death Eaters would have been immediately reported. But there was no telling for sure. Most witnesses had reported the suspects to be regular civilians, or, at least, dressed like it.

Impatient, Ginny started to tap her fingers against the chipped wooden surface of the table, pointedly ignoring the stares from the other side of the room. Her eyes darted over the dim and disheveled setting, her mind shrouded with thought. There was flimsy attempts at conversation throughout the place, but as fast as it started, it quickly subsided into silent contemplation. All around her were pale, withdrawn individuals, some with their head in their hands. In the corner, his face planted against the window near him, was, what seemed like a deranged, young man, who would collapse into forced chuckles every minute, almost like it was routine thing, even though there wasn't anything around him to laugh about. And it unnerved Ginny to her core. The place was very dark; the night dominating. She reckoned that there wasn't as much people as before since most people were too afraid to come here after that attack last week.

Many shops had either been ransacked or destroyed, not quite the buildings, but the gases that were expelled in there prevented people from entering. Whoever had done it had been subtle and silent. Nothing was outright destroyed. Instead, it had been discreet. Someone had set off Garrotting Gas in Gringotts, had poisoned the drinks of Ollivander's. Not to mention, there was a large amount of disappearance in the area. People lured into corners by, what they presumed, were potential dates, only to find themselves trapped in Death's embrace. Only, what seemed like, insignificant shops like Eeylops Owl Emporium, and even Fred and George's were ignored. Anything that contained school material were prohibited from entry, since they were deemed "dangerous" by the Aurors.

"Oi!" called a voice from the other end of the bar.

Bolstered from her trance, Ginny looked up. Near Tom the barman, who shot her a rather a sympathetic look, there was a rather drunken man leaning against the counter, his chair tilting back, a stubble on his face. He looked twice her age.

"What's a bird like you doing out on your own? Got a bloke?"

"Oh, shove off, will you?" snapped Ginny.

Taking the hint to depart, she stood up, adjusted her dark cloak around her shoulders, slammed a tip on the table, drew her hood over her head and stalked out of the bar, ignoring the cat-calls behind her.

As soon as she stepped out, a biting wind seized her lungs. Almost immediately, she felt as if she had been drenched in ice, a glacier of hopelessness settling deep in her gut. Her breaths escaped her lips like a trapped prisoner, even though it wasn't snowing. There was a large, opaque mist ahead of her as she traipsed down the row of shops. Everything felt dreary and cold; she could vaguely see figures through the mist, though they looked like ghosts with their absurdly wide eyes, peering almost into nothingness. Many people were sprawled along the walls, with their head in their hands, moaning and groaning, like they had a bad headache or something. Ginny blanched at the sight of one of the men crouched near the corner besides Gambol and Japes, his arms wrapped tightly around his waist, his groans droning in the quiet night. His lips were as black as charcoal.

Disturbed, Ginny hastened her pace. There was no moon tonight. Shivering, her teeth clattering, she drew her cloak closer to her petite frame in a fruitless effort to regain a modicum of warmth. But the coldness didn't seem to come from the weather. If anything, it seemed to have ensconced inside of her, as if her heart had been sealed in an ice chamber. Her nails turned blue, her hands and face almost stone with the chill of the air. She wondered where the Aurors were. Weren't they supposed to be patrolling the place, or was it really as Dumbledore said it? Were they really traitors? She hastily chanced a glance back only to hit something solid in front of her that knocked her right off her feet. She landed on the cobblestone path with a _plonk_.

"Oh, hello there, miss."

Ginny snapped her head up. Standing with a yellow umbrella and bright yellow robes was a man around her age, with sandy brown hair and wide, child-like hazel eyes. He was looking down at her with a bright, cheery look, seemingly unaffected by his gloomy surroundings.

"Er–hi," she greeted lamely. Ignoring the outstretched hand, she stood up and dusted off her robes, trying to quell her swelling irritation. "Don't apologise or anything," she added, disgruntled.

"It's a nice day, isn't it?" he said brightly, his eyes glowing like Christmas lights.

Ginny paused. She shot him a strange look, looking as though she expected horns to sprout out of his head. There was something eerie about his large, toothy grin. It didn't reach his eyes. If Ginny was honest with her herself, his overly blithe disposition seemed rather . . .

Fake.

"Er–" she said uncertainly. "Is it?"

As if addressing a silly child, he smiled and shook his head. "Oh, people are always so negative nowadays. Shame, how projecting any sort of negativity onto the world is favoured more than positivity. People should learn to appreciate the world for its simplicity. If the world is still spinning, is that not positive enough?"

"Well . . . I . . ." she shifted on her feet, not knowing why he felt the need to share that with her. "I _suppose_ . . ."

Finally, he nodded and swept past her without another glance. "Good day to you, miss."

Ginny wanted to return the gesture, but her mouth felt as ineffective as a tree stump at the moment. Besides, he seemed to be having a good day as it was. Her eyes followed him until he was completely enveloped by the mist before she turned to traipse onward, reminding herself to be extra vigilant.

'What _was_ that?' Ginny thought, baffled.

She continued to walk down the row of shops, her feet squelching against the drenched terrain. Throwing a hasty glance at her watch, she deduced that it was half past midnight. She still had another quarter of an hour of patrol. At the thought, she felt a sting of guilt in her chest, remembering how her mother clung to her before she left, begging her not to go looking for trouble. But Ginny was determined. She couldn't stay in one place. Her entire family was involved in the war, she couldn't just sit back and let it all happen. She wanted to help, too.

Suddenly, Ginny stilled. Behind her, there was a faint weeping sound coming from the doorways of one of the shops. With a jolt, she realised that it was Obscurus Books, a popular book publisher, that had stopped publishing after its owner, Felix Faust, was found horribly disfigured by the Transmogrifian Torture; distraught more over his work than himself, the man still lingered there, haunting the place as a ghost.

Drawing her wand, she hurried over to the shop. As she drew closer, the weeping amplified, and Ginny was reminded unpleasantly of Moaning Myrtle. She climbed the short steps and peered through the aloft door, finding a faint light coming from inside.

"Hello?"

Her voice echoed back to her in the silence. Her wand arm outstretched, she illuminated the tip and stepped inside the shop and looked around, the smell of dust overwhelming her nose. Pages from torn books were sprawled everywhere, piled on top of tables, counters, even the wooden floor. Chairs were overturned behind the corners, chipped and blackened. Bookcases were knocked on top of each other, leaning heavily against the walls. Windows were broken, indicating some sort of squabble or robbery, Ginny inferred. All in all, the place was very grey and disheveled. She gingerly picked up on of the torn books on the floor and flipped hastily through it. That is, until one of the pages practically bellowed at her to shut the book.

"Shit," she cursed, her ears ringing. Startled, she quickly slammed the book shut, which, much to her irritation, blew a cloud of dust in her face.

And she cursed again.

But suddenly, there was a faint rustle behind her, and she quickly perked up. She whipped around, her wand aloft, scanning the room for the source of the sound. There was a faint light coming from a small room in the corner that looked something like a broom shed. Cursing Dumbledore for once again for letting her get involved with a hoard of nutty morons, she tentatively approached it, the weeping sound amplifying. It sounded like someone was breathing in short gasps, like their breath was being constrained or something.

She inched forward, expecting a hoard of Death Eaters. Her other hand was deep in her robe pocket, her fingers curled around the Dark Detector in her pocket. It didn't seem to react, which indicated that there wasn't any Dark wizards around, but that didn't alleviate her fear. Not with the sound of glass crashing from inside the doorway. Her chest constrained with fear, but she quickly brushed it aside, and approached, her inner qualms swelling. As she rounded the corner, however, she stilled at the sight. A middle-aged woman, her cheeks stained with tears, was crouched under a large oak table, her arms enveloped with two small children, a boy and a girl, that couldn't be older than five years. Above her was, what seemed like a deranged man, slamming bottle after bottle onto the table, leaving shards of glass shattering against the table.

"Oh, p-please help me," whimpered the woman, hugging her children closer to her chest. "please, my husband's trying to kill me!"

Snapping out of her trance, Ginny quickly strode forward and caught the man's arm, trying to stop him from hurling glass at his family. His hands and arms were bleeding, his skin littered with glass shards. His hair was untidy, his glasses cracked and lopsided. But the latter was of burlier stature than her, and quickly jerked his arm from beneath her grip.

"Oi," said Ginny loudly. "what do you think you're _doing_?" She quickly pointed her wand at his head, ready to stun him if necessary.

"They're demons–!" he shouted, his wand arm shaking uncontrollably. "Death Eaters –!" He was blinking rapidly, as if dispelling a distasteful image from his mind.

"Are you _mad_?" demanded Ginny, standing in front of the trembling mother. "They're just kids. What could they _possibly_ do to you?"

"Inferi–devils–Dementors–oh, God, help me–"

Ginny's head was spinning. The man didn't seem to see the family. It was like he was in his own world, as if he was projecting onto his family what he was seeing in his own mind. Judging by his anguished expression, he didn't seem to want to hurt them. Was he Bewitched, or perhaps under the Imperius Curse? But victims under the Imperius never hesitated to cast a spell. She looked at him, ambivalent towards her next move. What could she do, Confund him, Stun him, perhaps? Regardless, she didn't want to take the chance.

She moved forward in front of the wand, blocking him from his family. "Hey, just put the wand down, okay? You don't want to hurt them. Just tell me what happened–"

"Stay back, demon!" he shouted, his wand positioned at her chest. Behind her, the whimpers of the children amplified, and she gained the courage to point her wand at him.

"All right, I'm really sorry about this, but– _Stupefy_!"

The man crashed into the wall and slumped unconscious. Breathing heavily, she looked around, trying to find the source of his insanity, but there didn't seem to be anything unusual. Then she turned on her heels and crouched under the table with a hand outstretched.

"It's safe to come out now," she said, trying to pry loose the mother's clinging fingers from her son. "Here, let me help."

With gentle prodding, she finally extracted the little boy from his mother and carried him out, leaving the mother more room to maneuver. The girl clung to her mother's cloak and kept throwing terrified glances at her father. But finally, they were all standing outside of the broom closet, looking at the slumped figure on the floor.

"He's been acting like this ever since we came back from Fortescue's," explained the woman, her body still wracking with sobs. "All I did was ask him about his work, and he started shouting and threw me through the window, I don't know what's happened. He's never been like this before."

Ginny rubbed the woman's arm, not entirely sure how to comfort her. "Look, if this happens again, just call the Aur–" she paused and inwardly grimaced at the thought. "Bugger. I mean, just strap him to a wall or a bed or something or just leave him here until he's calmed down. You've got a wand on you, haven't you?"

"Of course."

"Right, then," said Ginny, wrapping her cloak around herself again. "I've got to head off. Just shout for Tom if you get into any more trouble, he's at the Leaky Cauldron. He'll be happy to help. Take care of yourself, won't you?"

The woman's bottom lip trembled, but she still managed a small smile. Her arms were wrapped around her children, who gave Ginny timid yet grateful looks from beside their mother.

"Thank you."

Ginny forced a smile, though the muscles at her cheek felt tight. With a backwards wave, she thrust open the door and practically scrambled outside, expelling a sharp breath when she was completely out of sight. She didn't realise she had been holding it in for that long. What the hell was going on? Diagon Alley didn't even closely resemble the bright and bustling place that she had visited years ago. It had been warm and inviting, but now it was shrouded in gloom and mystery and . . . peculiarity. Sure, it was late at night, but there must be at least _one_ sane person around this area. She felt like she was the only Healer in a mental hospital. Everything seemed forced and fake and unusual. Hurriedly glancing at her watch, she realised sourly that her shift had ended hours ago.

Sighing in frustration, she stomped down the cobblestone street, determined to ignore any idiot who passed her. That is, until she slammed right into a solid figure, repelling her slightly. But the latter caught her wrists and prevented from falling down–

 _Again_!

She supposed that she had finally contracted the pestilential nutty syndromes of Diagon Alley, too. She was literally stumbling on everything. Or maybe she was just having a bad day, she didn't know. Regardless, she stowed those thoughts away and turned to thank her "saviour," but as soon as she lifted her head, her face drained of all colour. He was _cold_. The man's hand that was holding her wrist were like blocks of ice around her skin. His lips and fingernails were pitch black, and his breath billowed out like steam from his mouth, that none of the other residents seemed to share. Looking down, she spotted large black blotches near the exposed parts of his skin.

And when he spoke, his voice was raspy and hoarse.

"Hello there, miss."

She swallowed, her gaze pinned, almost rudely on the man. But she couldn't tear her gaze away from him, he was almost _inhuman_.

"Hello," she said flatly. Why was everyone greeting her today, of all days? They couldn't all know her, especially not with the hood of her cloak drawn.

Much to her displeasure, an ominous shiver ran up her spine as the man leaned closer, his hands tightening around her wrist. It was almost like he was leaching her confidence, leaving her to lament on her fear and misery.

Or maybe she _was_ nutty.

"You seem like a nice young woman," he rasped, rather nonchalantly. But she struggled under his grip.

"Well-spotted," she replied dryly. She started to lean her head away when he got to close and said cuttingly. "Do you mind?"

After much wrestling, she managed to wrench herself away from his iron grip. Stepping back, she started dusting off her robes when he stepped up again, much to her irritation, even closer than before.

She threw a hasty glance at her watch, trying to create the impression that she was busy. "Look, I'm a bit in a hurry, so if you don't mind–"

"Yeah, what for?" he said, what seemed to Ginny, as feigned interest.

He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on her lips. Her frustration gurgled at the surface, she suddenly had an image of beating him over the head with a Beater's bat.

"Never you mind," she said, her insides curling with irritation. But the man leaned closer, she could almost feel his breathe on her face. "Oi, what do you think you're doing? Back off, will you?"

"You're very lovely," he said, his eyes hungrily studying her.

"Look," she said firmly, inching back and drawing her wand again. "just step back, all right?" But he ignored her. Clearly, he was looking for trouble.

"I would very much like to kiss you," he breathed, looking at her if she was a maiden sent from heaven.

"No," she said sharply. "Look, I appreciate the compliments, but I've got to head off. My husband's waiting for me."

"Just once–just a small peck–just one will do–"

" _No_ ," she said vehemently, shoving him off by the shoulders and ducking under his grip. "I said _shove off._ "

"Oi," shouted a voice from across the street. From above the man's head, Ginny caught a glimpse of a man with a bowled hat hurrying towards her. "Get off her, you plonker!"

But before he could reach her, Ginny fired the Bat-Bogey Jinx at the man, giving her the opportunity to slip away from his grasp. She quickly turned the corner and went scurrying off to the left, throwing hasty glances behind her. But as soon as she was alone once again, she stopped and tried to catch her breath, her hands on her knees. She could hardly believe it.

What was _with_ everyone today?

Grindewald must have stimulated everyone's nutty syndromes, leaving not humans behind him but a hoard of moronic apes that didn't know the difference between their heads from their backsides. But that man . . . he seemed strange. Sure, maybe some men didn't mind for aesthetics and cosmetics like girls do, but the colour didn't seem . . . artificial. It looked real. His lips and nails had been pitch black, along with spots along his skin. Maybe make-up explained his lips and nails, but how did that explain why his skin was shedding, or why he seemed so desperate for a Kiss, almost like a Dem . . .

'No,' she thought firmly. It can't be. Not here in Diagon Alley . . .

Right?

Stumbling on her trepidation, she drew her cloak closer and continued on, trying not to pay too much attention to the faint moaning of the residents. On the way, she could see several people sitting on the steps near the shops, some outright bawling, some looking grim and paranoid. Many of the buildings, mainly the decrepit ones, were vibrating with restriction wards, preventing anyone from entry for their own protections. From down the cobblestone path, she could see that the misshapen silhouette of Gringotts, which was also restricted from public access. But curiousity gripped Ginny. She knew that the Ministry was still trying to rectify the damage to the bank along with dealing with the hefty amounts of Garrotting Gas in there, but with almost a week passed, she wondered if any of those claims were true.

Casting a furtive glance at the building, she walked past it, resisting the urge to go in and investigate. But she had promised her mother not to go looking for trouble; she certainly didn't want her mother to be even more upset, not after what happened to Ron and her dad. Hence, she stopped near the steps Flourish and Blotts, glanced impatiently at her watch, and started to tap her feet in a futile attempt to alleviate some frustrations. She received quite a few odd and vacant looks, but none approached her. To her right, a boisterous group of young men started to swarm like moths together. But she didn't care. She was waiting for two things: the latest edition of _How To Charm Your Readers_ and her sweet and ever so very punctual _husband_ of hers.

But there were too many people in there, buying whatever rubbish they needed before it closed at one. Like insects, people swarmed about, shoving into each other, but she silently stepped aside and waited for the crowd to abate before she walked in. But as soon as she made the decision, the last person, a man with a bowled hat, snatched the last copy and quickly and left without a backyards glance.

And Ginny's last bit of patience snapped. "Oh, _do_ carry on," she said, incensed. "it's not like I was standing here waiting for it for half a bloody hour. Just prance off like a bloody _ponce_ –"

"Ginny?"

Ginny looked up. There, with his cloak hanging over his arm, was her husband, Winston Bridges, a tall, thin figure with soft, neat brown-hair that looked slightly disheveled from his obvious overwork. An amused eyebrow was raised over his brown eyes. He was dressed in dark blue robes, which seemed appropriate for his work. He looked puzzled but amused by her outburst, and Ginny resisted the urge to flush in embarrassment. She was reminded sourly of the time that they had first met, when she had tripped over a woman's cat going to an interview only to find herself drenched in a foot-full of mud in front of a particularly dashing and charismatic genteel.

"Oh," she said lamely, self-consciously adjusting her cloak. "sorry. I was just coming to get you."

He shook his head, amused. Then he turned, drew his wand from his robes and muttered a spell at the door before turning to switch the sign to "closed." Satisfied, he shrugged on his cloak, tugged on the hood, and beckoned her to start walking.

"Might try to be a bit louder next time," he joked, rubbing his hands together in a fruitless attempt to gain warmth. "the blokes down in Knockturn Alley didn't quite catch your dulcet shout–" He puffed when she elbowed him roughly.

"Oh, sod off," she muttered; she moved to stand in front of him with her hands on her hips, shooting him an expected look. "And didn't you forget something?"

"Oh, right," he sighed and shook his head. "what's the name of your Pigmy Puff?"

"Arnold. How did your first cat die?"

He grimaced at the memory. "Got swallowed by a Nogtail. Poor bugger, wish I'd kept a leash on it, but I guess it got what came to it."

Feeling a little lighter now that she had company, she accompanied him down the cobblestone path, past Gringotts, which she shot another furtive glance at, before scurrying off with him, the younger men in the back cat-calling behind her.

"Well, I hope your day's been better than mine," grumbled Ginny, pointedly glaring at the boisterous group. "I've been wrestling with a hoard of idiots all day."

"Just ignore them, Ginny," he coaxed, squeezing her hand. "those blokes can't spot seaweed in sea water."

"You're still sane, then?" she enquired. "You didn't catch the nutty symptoms of Diagon Alley, did you?"

He cocked an eyebrow, looking quite unsurprised.

"Oh, you noticed."

"Who wouldn't?" grimaced Ginny, ignoring the cat-calls from the men behind her. "I didn't think it'd change this much after one attack."

Winston glared at the men and beckoned her to speed up her pace. He then leaned closer to her ear and lowered his voice. "After what happened to Gringotts, supposedly the next most secured place after Hogwarts, I'd be surprised if it didn't."

"Didn't someone let off Garrotting Gas at the entrance?"

"Yeah. Choked the whole lot of them. Even Goblins. I don't think anyone's been there since. They hardly had time to clean up the bodies. Gave us a right scare, it did. So many people lost their families that night. You should've been there, Ginny–women and children–"

Ginny's stomach sank, her face draining of all colour at the reminder. She remembered the horrifying sights of, not only the rotting and starving bodies of the sleeping villagers in Fraisdaill Village, but also the hundreds of bodies lined up along the entrance of Gringotts, the sights forever haunting her, making it a thousand times harder to sleep at night.

She swallowed. "I know. I was there, remember? I helped them clean up, after, you know . . . that fiasco last week."

"Some clever bloke thought up the brilliant idea to blow the gas away to the section by the vaults, but it was too late. It already filled their lungs–"

But they jolted at the sudden outburst of laughter coming from the direction of Knockturn Alley. They both threw wary glances at each other before Winston silently prodded her shoulder to keep walking.

"This way," he nudged her arm towards a decrepit looking building that looked black with soot. Ginny accompanied him, suddenly feeling a lot lighter, even though the subject of the discussion was far beyond her comfort. She shot him furtive glances, noticing, rather admirably, how he didn't seem affected by the cold chill of the night. In fact, there wasn't any hint of madness or melancholy at all in his expression. Nothing short of a trace of exhaustion, which seemed well-earned in her opinion. She hadn't seen him all day. Regardless, there was a familiar sort of charisma about him that she found oddly comforting. But soon, her curiousity got the best of her.

"Where are we going?"

"Food," he yawned, stretching until his joints cracked. Ginny wanted to comment him for being shabby already, but she didn't have the will nor strength for it. "I'm famished."

Ginny threw a wary glance at her surroundings. "You're sure it's safe to eat here?"

He stilled in his tracks, following her gaze with a raised brow. "You reckon it's worth the risk?"

"So long as you're not dead, I s'pose."

"That's putting it lightly," he said distractedly.

She couldn't help but notice how suddenly pale he looked after her suggestion, but she didn't comment. Instead, she let him lead her to a dilapidated building near the outskirts of Diagon Alley called Brews and Stews, which, when she entered, had a relatively warmer yet still empty feeling since there weren't many people around. A good place to have a controversial discussion, she mused, as she chose a seat in a somewhat isolated corner and waited for him to come back.

She looked around. There was a faint laughter coming from one of the open doors behind the counters, but she couldn't tell if it was genuine or not. To her relief, there were actually hints of normality in this place, people actually engaged in discussion, their faces not quite as grim as earlier. There were even two young men playing Exploding Snap, which mitigated the tension that she had been feeling since she was been assigned to patrol the place. But soon, Winston came back, and she quickly leaned forward to vent her inner qualms.

"Did you hear?" she said a low tone, looking around for scandalmongers. "They blamed the Order for the attacks, on the pretense of working against the Ministry, and people actually believe in that soddy pile of rubbish. How can they possibly be in two places at once?"

He shrugged in blasé. "They've got enough members. I'm not justifying it," he added hastily at Ginny's dark look. "I'm just stating the obvious. They'll buy into anything as long as they know who did it."

"But–we didn't–"

"Keep your voice down," he hissed.

"Who's taking over Gringotts, then?" shot Ginny. "Is it no longer operating?"

"They've opened up a new Department in the Ministry called the Department of Finance. They're in charge of the money."

"What's the catch?"

"The Goblins cut off relations with wizards completely, and they're not discriminating between friendly wizards or Dark wizards. I mean, it's not exactly surprising considering they're not the most friendly of creatures."

"They blame the whole lot of us for the attack?"

"Yeah," he said, troubled. "Laurie Babbertott, she used to work for Gringotts as a Curse-breaker, she said they thought of it as a ruse by wizards to claim the gold for themselves."

"That's rubbish!" she slammed her palm on the table, drawing a few distasteful looks. "If we cared about the gold, we would've done it years ago."

"I know," he placated, urging her to lower her voice. "but they're greedy pigs. They'll buy into anything as long as they get their share of the gold, too. And that's not the worst part. With the Goblins gone, the Ministry's taken the rights of the vaults. And with Grindewald in office, Muggle-borns lost the rights to own any Magical or Magically related possessions, and that's including their wands. Their vaults are sealed and accessed only by the Ministry."

"But that's not–" she caught herself when he shot her a warning glance. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "That's not fair."

"That new outbreak, Ginny," he shook his head and leaned back, looking troubled. "that Living Dead sickness or whatever they've called it. It's giving them a reason to further this treatment. No one's going to complain about the Ministry when their loved ones are getting their souls sucked out by pseudo-Dementors. They're just going to do whatever it takes to protect their families."

Ginny swallowed, suddenly feeling nauseous, the laughter in the back almost non-existent. "You don't mean–they're not seriously _killing_ them, are they?"

"There's no way around it," he said solemnly. When she opened her mouth to retort, he added. "They're taking matters into their own hand. They think it's the Muggles causing the sickness, that's why no one's tolerating them anymore. Everyone's just starting to believe whatever hogwash Grindewald spouts at them now. Everything's gone lopsided, Ginny, not that it wasn't like this before, but it's gotten a thousand times worse since Grindewald became Minister."

A stretching silence crossed the two; neither of which knew what to say. Everything seemed so hopeless. There was hardly anyone left that could fix this fiasco, especially with two masterminds in control. There was no Aurors to alleviate the situation, no sane Minister of Magic, the Order was becoming less and less trust-worthy. People were getting killed left and right, having their souls sucked, being driven insane, being drugged or poison or even having their inheritance getting robbed from them. Hell, even the last bit of hope that the Order had was now locked up in Askaban, awaiting his sentence.

Where had it gone wrong?

"I reckon they're trying and do in the Muggles," she said absently. "I mean, I've never even heard of this sickness before that Daily Prophet article mentioned it. I imagine it must've started from that incident in Fraisdaill Village."

"Well," he sat up and placed his hands behind his head, sinking down against the bench. "Snape _did_ say they were mostly Muggle-born."

"You really think it's only Muggles carrying the disease?"

"Not likely," he shook his head, his eyes fixed on a spot above her head. "I reckon it's a ruse to try and get wizards riled up over the Muggles. Did you read the recent Daily Prophet article?"

She threw her fork down with a _clang_ and leaned back with a disgusted look on her face. "Yeah, I did. A load of rubbish, if you ask me."

"Well, take my advice and take what you've got while it still lasts–"

"Even if they're a complete load of hogwash–?"

"I know what you're implying," he said grimly. "but at least we're getting news at all. Think about it, would you rather the fabricated truth or the blunt lie?"

"I'd rather not decide," she said, disgruntled. "I doubt it's as simple as either or."

"I know," he sighed, his eyes drifting across the bar, looking rather tired. "You're right."

In the distance, the faint laughter from behind the counter became a drumming sound in Ginny's ears. So engrossed in her thoughts, she didn't even startle when the young men who had been playing Exploding Snap earlier got an explosion to the face, which singed the younger one's hair, causing the other one to burst with laughter. It was almost as if she was in a different world, the world that Grindewald and Voldemort had built in, what felt like, twenty-four hours, but was actually a stretch of ten years. And no one had noticed the snake that slithered out of its nest, the sly predator whose prey never knew that they were attacked until they were actually dead. The predator that lay dormant in its nest until it was the right time to pounce then returned to hibernation.

Voldemort had played it subtly, starting from the Aurors, to Harry Potter, to the entirety of the Ministry, then the Muggles and the civilians. It was brilliant, and so like the Tom Riddle that had been so charming, so patient with her in her First Year, offering benign assurances until she was stable enough for him to overcome her insecurities, then back-stabbed her like the ruthless snake that he was.

So perfect. So patient and endearing, like the sweet cadence of a wedding bell slowly and steadily sinking into the deep, ominous bong of a funeral bell . . . and no one noticed.

And then the entire Wizarding World faltered.

Ingenious.

"They've taken down the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artefact," stated Winston, jolting Ginny out of her thoughts. She snapped her eyes up, horrified.

"Those _arses_ –!" she hissed furiously. "Who do they think are?"

"Men in power," he waved a hand and leaned forward again. "You don't understand what's going on–"

"Like hell I don't," she said loudly, drawing annoyed glances at her side of the table. "I don't think my brain stands a fat _chance_ against those pea-sized brains of theirs–"

He laid his hand on hers in an attempt to placate her. "They've taken down all Muggle and Muggle-born rights almost overnight. You're lucky Hermione's taken the week off, otherwise, they'd have her cornered faster than you could say 'sabotage.'"

Ginny felt a pang in her chest at the thought. Hermione had only taken the week off after Ron's disappearance, choosing instead to remain home with her kids and her newly born son. From the corner of the room, the laughter of the man amplified like a drumming sound in her ears. It sent the hairs on the back of her head on end. Without realising it, she tightened her hand around his at the thought.

"I don't understand," she shook her head. "I thought they wanted to kill Muggles, not make a bad image out of them."

"Grindewald never wanted to kill Muggles, remember?" he pointed out. "He just wanted to prove that Muggles were inferior to wizards. And besides, there's too many Muggles in the world to control, it's best they tarnish their name and let the wizards living with them to do their dirty work for them."

"Surely not everyone's that dim-witted?" she asked weakly. Though a part of her already knew the answer.

"Is that a question or a fact?" he said dryly. "That sickness is enough to get people riling. What's stupid is that people are assuming that everyone who's carrying the disease is of Muggle descent when they could very well be half-blood or pure-blood. You'd think they'd have a little more sense–"

But suddenly, they were interrupted by a hysterical shout of laughter coming from behind the counters. A man emerged from behind the ajar doors, stumbling back against a cabinet of glass, hunched over, hands on knees, laughing his spirits away. The entire room stared at him, none of which seemed keen on joining in his absurd bouts of laughter. Instead, they all watched him with fear and bewilderment in their countenances.

Ginny watched, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on edge. Whatever was wrong with the man, it didn't seem intentional.

She felt her mouth move without her consent. "What's wrong with him?"

"Laugh-Inducing Potion," muttered Winston out of the corner of his lips. 'Someone must've spiked his drink."

She felt a dew drop of disturbance ensconce deep in her gut as the man's laughter drummed like funeral bells in her ear.

"Is there a way to stop it?"

He shook his head. "I'm not certain."

Ginny stared. There was something unsettling about the man's hysterical bouts of laughter that sent a chill oscillating under her skin. Tears sprung in rivulets down his face, his body wracking with a series of jolts, his fingers clawing desperately at his cheeks. It suddenly occurred to Ginny that the man was having trouble breathing. He was drawing in short gasps in between his laughter, yet his mouth remained twisted into an ear-to-ear grin. The others around him, mainly men, tried to hold him down, shouting at each other to distract him with something, but they were all looking quite as shell-shocked as she was. He must have been fed a boatload full of Laugh Inducing Potion, and no one seemed to have a clue how to cure it.

Finally, one of the men decided to hold out his wand and fire the Stunning Curse, which immediately tamed the dull droning of the laughter. The man's eyes rolled backwards, and he collapsed into the arms of, what seemed like, his brother. The latter looked quite pale and shaken, but the others quietly muttered something to him. He nodded, carrying his brother on his back. Ginny watched his retreating back with a hollow feeling in her stomach. She supposed that he was going to take his brother to St. Mungos. But she vaguely registered the increasing muttering that rippled across the room just as the older brother departed. In a fit of paranoia, she reverted her attention to her drink with a hint of grimace. Vowing constant vigilance, she abruptly pushed it away.

"Merlin," she sucked in a breath. "Guess I'd better take a leaf out of Mad-Eye's book. Got a spare drinking flask?"

From across the table, he shot her a half-amused, half-exasperated look before he reverted his attention to the departed men, looking quite solemn and exhausted. They didn't feel like newly weds. In fact, her wedding felt like a dream from a far-off land that couldn't possibly been part of this new reality. They could hardly even think about their future with all this mess of a Wizarding World.

And to think . . . Dumbledore was still alive. Even with all his strength, neither Voldemort nor Grindewald seemed to consider him as a larger threat anymore. Irresistibly, she wondered what would happen if Dumbledore somehow . . . fell over and died? What would happen, then?

Armageddon?

But the thought was so horrifying that she strapped it in steel chains and stowed it away, determined to trounce the lingering bleakness of Diagon Alley.

Naturally, she sought a distraction. "Did you hear?" she began, trying to look composed by hiding behind her mug. "Hannah quit her job."

But he didn't look surprised. "Can't blame her, really," he shrugged, an underlying concern in his tone. "With all that's happened to her, and the attack on Diagon Alley last week . . . "

Ginny didn't bother hiding her bitterness. "You'd think they'd have learned a lesson or two about fraternizing with the Dark Arts."

"People are scared, Ginny," he replied seriously. "They'd choose whatever would keep them protected and fed and whatever harm away from their loved ones. I mean, you'd do that for your family, wouldn't you?"

"Actually," she set her mug down with a loud _thud_. "I'd rather they died fighting for what's right, quite frankly. It's like Dumbledore said, isn't it? Someone's got to stand up them, we can't just lay back and pretend it's never happened."

He sighed. "I know, I'm just speaking from their perspective. You'd know that better than anyone, I s'pose."

Ginny wanted to bite back with a retort, but her words got caught in her mouth, her expression resembling something like a codfish as the waiter in question stepped up to them with a splitting, ear-to-ear grin that Ginny thought ought to be fined, in her opinion. She looked fit to burst into laughter if Ginny so much as flicked her off, which she respectively refrained from doing, more out of respect for her husband than anything else. But the woman's startling buoyancy caused a chill up her spine; like the others, the woman's beaming smile didn't seem to reach her eyes.

But they quickly ordered their meals, both uncomfortable under her jolly disposition. It seemed oddly out of place, especially when there was a cloud of misery hanging over the whole chunk of Diagon Alley that didn't seem to affect this woman.

"What's she grinning about?" muttered Ginny out of the corner of her lips, as soon as the woman was out of hearing range.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she noticed Winston's face darkening. "They've been spiking their drinks with Cheering Potions to try and stop themselves from feeling utterly miserable."

"As if that'd help!" she said loudly, but he quickly threw her a warning glare to keep her voice down. "They're only delaying the feeling, not stopping it."

"It helps them cope, I think," he mused, his eyes pinned on the absurdly cheerful woman. "But most people have taken it too far, there's only so much happiness you could fake."

"You're kidding."

"You feel that coldness in the air, don't you?" he said in a low tone. "Almost like a Dementor's nearby."

Ginny blanched. "What are you playing at?"

"It's not just because it's winter," he said grimly.

"You're joking," she said weakly. Suddenly, she remembered the Dementor-like individual that she had met earlier. How fast was this sickness spreading?

"I wish I was," he grimaced. "It's been spreading everywhere. You do remember Sarah Nairn, don't you? A friend of mine, used to work for me." Ginny nodded. "Her husband came by today, said she poisoned herself while he was out visiting his parents. He was quite distraught. She was always bright, always helpful. It's a shame what happened to her, quite frankly."

"Merlin," she breathed.

"Or even worse," he muttered, looking troubled. "they've have been erasing their memories of any loved one they know that's passed. You know, pretend like it's never happened."

"They're that skilled with Memory Charms?" demanded Ginny.

He shook his head. "Not necessarily. They could buy or brew a boatload of Forgetfulness Potions, it's not that difficult, really."

Now she was really nutty enough not to find the words to describe how utterly cowardly that sounded. To erase memories of loved ones in order to make yourself feel better, she couldn't imagine forgetting all the peace and joy that she had felt for her family or Ron or her dad, no matter what happened to them. She wasn't going to forget those treasured memories of them, even they were making her miserable.

Her fork clattered loudly on the table. "So what if you're miserable without them?" she said indignantly. "At least you knew them at all, isn't that why you're missing them?"

"See?" he noted, with a hint of amusement mingled with exasperation. "Now you're being sensible."

"Oh, sorry," she scoffed, throwing her hands up. "Can't have that, God forbid having a bit of sense in your life."

And for the first time that night, he smiled but didn't interpose. Instead, a lighter silence enveloped them as he turned his attention back to the people surrounding while she made a mess with her salad. Her mother would have a fit if she saw what she had done to her food.

"I've got to say," she began, drawing his attention again. "I'm glad I found you first because, otherwise, I don't think I'd have married at all."

"Oh, come on, there's still good people in the world–"

"I'm starting to doubt it."

"That's exactly what they want you to think, Ginny," he said firmly. "You can't let them get to you, where's your Gryffindor spirit?"

Ginny's hands clenched around her mug, failing to keep the bitterness out of her tone. "It's gone with my dad and brother."

His face softened at her downcast expression. "You haven't heard from them yet?"

"No," she said sullenly, her nails digging into the mug, her strength mellowing out into a bleat of despair. "Nothing."

From across the table, she could feel his eyes boring into her, but she couldn't meet his eyes. She often wondered if he was a Legilimens with his knowing and sympathetic glances, but she guessed that some people just had a natural affinity to understanding others.

"Listen, Ginny–" he began, reaching for her hand.

She jerked her hand away. "If you're going to get on my back over it, I'll stab this fork in your finger–"

"Why would I say something like that?" he said defensively. He shook his head and reached for her hand, looking rather hesitant. "Listen, I was going to suggest–well, if it isn't any trouble–your mother's quite distraught–"

She blinked, suddenly feeling stupid for her rudeness earlier. "You think we should help her out?"

He nodded. "We'll stay the week with her, and hopefully, your dad and your brother will be there in time, perhaps before Christm– _oof_!"

He was cut off when she threw her arms around him from across the table, ineffably touched by the sensitivity. He laughed when she placed a kiss onto his tousled brown hair.

"She'll love it," she mumbled. "She doesn't like to be lonely."

"It's settled, then," he replied, pulling himself out of her grip. He stood with a hand outstretched. "Let's head off, shall we?"

She nodded, gratefully took his arm, and allowed him to lead her out of the shop. "You're a sensitive git," she said, poking him hard in the ribs. But he simply chuckled in return. "Must be why I'm always the one overlooked."

"Overlooked?" he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and placing a kiss on her forehead. "Not a chance, love."

And despite the bitter coldness, an accumulation of warmth purred in her chest. Maybe the world wasn't so bad, after all, she mused, and the thoughts of a nutty and a less hopeful future subsided as she leaned into the embrace. Together, they departed, leaving a spiral of dead leaves whistling behind them.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"It is the end of the world as we see it."

Albus looked up. From above the rim of his half-moon glasses, he watched the irritated Potion's Master pacing up and down the circular room of his office with vague awareness. The Portraits regarded the black-haired man with poorly concealed annoyance and distaste; clearly, they didn't agree with his rather hasty conclusion. From beside him, Albus caught the soft mewls of Fawkes from beneath the ashes whose burning day was always a source of fascination and contentment for the old man, but he couldn't seem to the strength nor motivation to stand and watch him, certainly not tonight, particularly not after the enchantingly nasty Daily Prophet article that he had just received tonight.

"What a cynical observation, Severus."

Severus glared.

Heaving a sigh, Albus shuffled the parchments to the corner of his desk and stood up, ignoring the weariness of his frame. Feeling like he was trapped in a world of his own, he rounded the desk, past the disgruntled Severus, and stood in front of the usual arched window where the last rays of the light twinkled in the fleeting sunset.

Severus halted abruptly in his tracks and shot him a rather irritated look. "Humour me, Headmaster. What could possibly be done against wizards of such eminence?"

But Albus didn't meet his annoyed look. He simply stood watching the last batch of students disappear indoors as the sun sank beneath the horizons, leaving behind a faint red glow that seemed to reflect off the water of the lake. Irresistibly, he wondered if there was ever a difference between the sky and the ground. Was everything just a reflection of its opposite? But then the tapping of Severus's impatient foot reminded him that Severus was still expecting a response.

Reality was always a strange place to be.

"Oh, many things, Severus," said Albus pleasantly. "Strikes, rebellion, protests, very common results in the face of injustice. It is as Voldemort wisely foretells it: for every ruler, there is an adversary."

"This will not bode well for my position, as you have, most likely, deduced," he shot Albus an expected but irritated look. "Nor yours for that matter."

"Yes, I understand, Severus," replied Albus wearily.

He removed his spectacles from his face to rub at his eyes, keenly aware of the curious looks from the Portraits around him. But as he placed them back onto his nose, he moved past Severus once again to the perch where Fawkes was. All the while, he could feel Severus's dark gaze boring into his head, but he didn't look up. He knew why Severus was irritated with him . . . but he had already made his decision clear.

"You still believe that there is love left in the world?"

"Certainly," Albus replied simply. Ignoring Severus's glare, he reached out to pet Fawkes's head with his dead hand. "these people are simply misguided, disillusioned, or desperate for the wellbeing of their loved ones. They simply need someone to help them past it, rather like you, Severus. Did I not offer you a chance to fix yourself which you willingly, and not forcibly, accepted?"

Severus's glare faded as abruptly as it occurred at the reminder. Irritated but stubborn, he nodded. "Of course, Headmaster," he said firmly, drawing himself to full height. "I am no coward to deny it."

"No, you are a brave man," he affirmed gently. "far more than anyone could ever dare to imagine. These people simply need a source of guidance, and mine alone will not suffice."

"Who is it, Dumbledore?"

Albus waved a hand airily. "It could be any of us. Whoever it is, Severus, as long as there are those who continue to believe there is hope, hope will always continue to exist."

Silence befell them as each became engrossed in their thoughts. Albus felt the immutable feeling of restless overcame him. In an lazy effort to alleviate it, he replaced Severus in pacing the room in thought as the younger man absently watched him. A part of him was, he had to admit, unnerved and unsettled. Everything wrong had started after Harry's disappearance, for the sole reason of his failure to protect the boy. As soon as Harry disappeared, and Voldemort had finally claimed him for himself, everything started to fall apart like a building balanced on one trembling pillar as its foundation. Voldemort, rather unpredictably, had sought _help_ from someone else, even though it was still for his own gain. He had actually allied with Grindewald and had been discreetly battling the Ministry for ten years.

Now Gellert Grindewald was back, the man he feared above all else for the truth regarding his dear sister's death. He knew he had to meet him soon, but a large part of him was still the frightened, cowardly, irresponsible young man that he had hoped he had long out-grown.

As if he knew where Albus's thoughts had strayed, Severus spoke out carefully, with a hint of wariness in his tone.

"Headmaster, if I may ask–"

Albus halted in his tracks. "Have I ever refrained you from asking anything, Severus? You are always permitted to question my judgements, which, as you know, are not always as meticulous as I sought them to be."

After a short pause, Severus forced a brief nod. "Of course, Headmaster. Why don't you try to reason with him, surely he will listen to you–"

"I am powerless against the Ministry," he replied grimly.

"If you had simply diminished your absurd sense of modesty and agreed to become Minister," snapped Severus. "none of this would have occurred."

Albus waved a hand and walked slowly to his desk, travail in his tracks. "Is it wise on dwell on possibilities, Severus? If there was a way to rewrite all of our wrongdoings, why, it would be as if we never lived at all."

Ignoring the quietly fury of the Potion's Master, he rummaged through his desk and pulled out his travelling cloak. Regardless of what he thought himself as, he was still capable of fixing this, with the glorious gifts of wisdom and intellect that he was given. And he liked to think that he had good intentions. No, he wanted to help others with the gifts that he was bestowed. And it was always best to start from where it had all gone wrong. If what he suspected was true, Voldemort was planning on rewriting destiny–the Prophecy by destroying Harry's sanity, morality, humanity. Why else would he keep the younger man alive, especially after that fierce duel they had shared?

No, Harry was proving to be more benefit than harm for the dreadfully efficient Dark Lord. The Ministry had once been intending to administer the Dementor's Kiss to Harry; they had claimed to follow up on it, but Albus had yet to hear anything about it. He would have to wait and see . . . if, in fact, the Ministry did _not_ schedule a sentence for Harry Potter soon, then everything that Albus suspected was true. Voldemort was, in fact, planning to rewrite the Prophecy through the Chosen One. He would not kill him, just destroy his true essence. The part that kept him fighting Voldemort.

The thought disturbed him. He would prefer to see Harry dead rather than watch the discreet meltdown that he was so close to having. He saw hints of it last time that they had spoken.

But the worst part . . . the thing which he feared the most . . . the thing which he could never bring himself to admit that he had seen when Harry had awoken after the battle, the terrifying realisation when he looked into Harry's mind to see glimpses of a memory which struck him like a knife to the chest . . .

Was there a part of Harry that had actually _meant_ it? That actually sought pleasure from the terrible and despicable things that he was doing to others.

Had Harry actually, perhaps unknowingly, made . . .?

No, he thought firmly. Harry was still the kind and noble young man that he was as a young boy. It was appalling for him to even consider such a terrible thing onto his former student. But then an irritating part of him acknowledged that Tom Riddle was also one of his gifted and possibly the most brilliant student he had ever taught. But he quickly stowed that thought away.

He didn't need a distraction. He needed to focus. He turned to Severus and gave him a firm nod before he clicked the clasp of his cloak shut and swept past the Potion's Master towards the door.

"I must speak to the Minister," he muttered as he thrusting the door open. "I trust that you will remain here at Hogwarts until I return," Severus nodded. "Very well, watch over the students for me while I am gone, and take care of yourself, Severus."

Grim but determined, Severus offered another nod. Albus smiled in return, feeling a rush of gratitude for his ever-faithful companion. Then, as the red glow from above the mountains faded from view, Albus stepped out and let the door close behind him with a soft _click_.

And he was off.

* * *

 **A/N** : I was going to make this about Hermione, but I have a strong dislike for that character. On top of that, I didn't want it to be super serious, and Ginny fit that role (her character was wasted potential, I actually liked her in the books). I know not to make it too depressing, because that's just unrealistic. There's always some fun and hope, even in the worst stories.

I just want to be clear that I don't care about pairings at all, I just want to get the story out. Personally, I don't think that Ginny would wait for Harry forever, nor even hold a crush for that long. So yeah, it doesn't make sense for her to be single.

Harry will most likely not be paired up in the story. He might or might not develop a certain liking or distant intimacy (I haven't decided yet) towards certain characters later on, but he will not outright be in a relationship. He needs to fix himself. He has _way_ too much going for him. Plus, I just hate romance in general. It's just very unnecessary to me.

And I know, I hate OC characters as much as anyone, but I only introduce when it's absolutely necessary. They won't get in the way of the other characters.

Yes, DC is my biggest inspiration (hint, laugh gas, fear gas, sound familiar?)

A few words make my day . . . leave a review (please). Thanks to all those that do, btw (I often forget to offer my thanks).


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